f 




m 

i' V f 


i ’• / 


* > % 




} J t f 


- -• . V 


I •* «. 

In » :* % 4 

1 t ' 

• -t 

.♦ ■ , . . ; 


* it < 

4 . < 




f * ». * 

V ? > • '. 

* > 1 l 

. i ' \ : 


;'i‘; 

: * •• i J 


, » ‘ *' 


I \\ - ■ i 

1 « 4 • ^ 

> « r . ^ f 


r . * ' ■ ; 1 
, • ' 1 , ' 
. s. v. M 


i f f , \ 

i f 

• • *. y »• i 

i * i ‘ 

• t < 

n • 


>Ct *. 


1 

» v '/ 


. 1 *’ 

I - •* 

? i 

r ,* 

r 1 / 

s r 

U 








1 


t J < * * - • 

% \ 1 <* 

; > ' 


J \ * 


i • 1 * 

.• • • 4 | * 


w 


1 4 \ y S J 




• ;i i 
> (< • • 

\ r J fi'l 

% ' # > • i • 


* <' * * - i 


< 1 

■ 


A t 


10 ' 

v * •• ’■ 


M % a i 


V » 5 * 




# . » i ' i 

: i \ r < 

.# • 4 + 

. • i 

• • it 

* • *» 1 

r f • • I 

4*4 * • *J 


r« j • . *j 


1 . r « V 

V ♦ T * 


ijH 


• • * I I* f 

> 1 \ I 

• * < * • 


v v . * . • i 
?•> . 


» • ‘ .f Si 

T * V I 

• t tl i 

j h 

t « ; 4 , 

» S» 

st' f\r 
? . J * « * / 
t' ' t .•• 

• t t y 9 

< ' 

t * 1 

' 4 iv 


■ f \ » '• » 

♦ r* » . 

■ ‘ i 

' • lr i l t . j . 


i • * • * % . » yi 

t • t'S.' ' 

1 • \ » i • I • V r 


^ • t /( ,n; 

»-»»•!♦ * I I I J 

' \ \ ' ^ • 

’ * { ' 1 

% L I 1.1 t * ‘ 


ic n ^1 ^ i » i i v ' * 

’(• »* '<* *U r\{ 

f < . f- -■ -• 1 > - •- ’ J 


[ F / i t i • » f 
J ' v 4 •>' .» Jt 

. Jr o? '.vS/V ,'V 




I -1 * * * ♦ *i, ; • < 

. V. V 4 • ( il 
\ • > « i ; i > 


fl : I . I 4 t 4 I 4 • < 

. ♦ % » 1 # j v • \ 1 f • 

• i ;» • < » t i. it f t 

■ i * ' t i • 

• * 1 * * I 14 » ' 

• $ 1 « M « 4«1 

I * .1 • It 

4 lA ki \ i « fc * • J t 

,■ r.» 

4 ;• » > - ',i <« • f * v , 


I - H * 1 

\ - . i 

• i • i • • i j • 


i t f 


' ' • -V ; V X 

* ' ‘ . A ' ' tf 1 1 

* » 1 * V * 1 • VI 

! 1 | « ' » 

f \ * 1 ; l i 

f I t * « 4 ‘ \ 






J ' 


V i ; ■ / 

.. <.<« v r 

4 .4 .1 tt 

Ml .T > . V * 

» -» ' i I v 

?T r K 

.• , I 1 


s' v* j 

• V* * J 2* 

■;'i' : 


r < ■> '< 

H i * ' 


5 :• 


Hi 


It 4 V > 

I . Jl ♦ J I 4 

t •* 4 I 1 

/Sf‘ 1 
i r 
J '. ?■ r " 


H) 


i ■ i* -r , * 

. i,#. ^ r i i 

* * i rl j 


: r / 

• !i . 

* i s 

k ? \ * 


r | \ 


* .v A ‘ 


• •? * ? 
• p M 

v % 


: l \ 


•l a « r- 


■:i. s 


'*• r 

V ? ’ 


' ? ’ ? 


■ V * *' 


* . • 
- f t » 




•I | • 
» 

if A > 


M I y * 
l . J ♦ I 


• - j J 

( • * > 

1 r ' . 

C T « I , 

' * ♦ ' 1 M 

• '• 4 i 

r <J » 1 


‘ 4 * ’ f • 

* ‘ t ’ 

• • ' ^ >* 9 

ft \ si 

. >• t i I 4 
. ' -I 1 A t 


; • U f , 4 




.4 ^ ■» ^ . 

4 I J • 

T ♦ > Lil 

1 h.’ . r. 

^ 
i > • 

• 4 ' < * 

[ ;m \ 

. * . 1 .• t 

i *t . 4 


r t\r 

r. r,r 
t f \ r 


. I c* « ^ 

F > f f # 

i ;i * 4 

C , ' 

t * t ' i 

f i V' M 

•: • i ; l 


1 % « f 

I •• t< 

* ft ’ 1 


-lit/ 

4 . • 

•i / ♦ J 1 


» i £ » f 

ft/* i 




** \ ' 

‘ ) 


•\W 


rw 


Hi 


^r| 

'Ur 

V* -V 


r*v 

u ' hiw 

i !n 


> «« t * 1 


■ I i 

?L!I 


iht 

« ' * V 

1 If ' t 

« I * A 
i r , i 


i ' \ * 

\ * f * 


1 % > • 


♦ V • 


h n 

mi 

h K 


/ • *• • 








































;> N c 


< * 7 * 0 * A 
'"V * A ,» 1 ' 


' 0 . 1 * 

% °o 0° 

f - K 

'*o o X 

* i * 

© >■ 

’ * >T^%* 5 ; 0 v< ' * • ,V * ■ ■ ■ $■ 0 

^ ^ , r <, e,, . - A* v 




s * 



? - V ;: t ° A^ y r - f \- 

* * . SA * * s S > A ^ ■_ 1 « ;v 0 * * W °r * . ^ 



0 * 
w ^ 

■ , : a *. 


si 0 


'V /i . ,\> »77'*' /•’ *V7 * ' / 

/> +> <y s s / /, O \ > * 

«» ^efrirhfS^ a sCj ' 

(\WA » «6 A * • <"< A , 

0 , y A: v ;-, ° ^ *» - t/' A. 

C-VY Z 



: A * 


A A 




^ y 0 ♦ X * JlO 





o 




z 



z 

c 

A^' 

V> 

t/\ 

o 




fe j .as; ^\V 

S**! c S 4 <\ O y 

1 //'^^°o 

V ^ r / r?~> ^ 

: '=«< :*S 

• ^ ** ' V: 



o 

* n t X ^ ^ 0 

'"'♦'V 3N0 " v>V-.> '"'* ^ s" s 

* -?’ A\> Or (A -. • A, ° -£v <A 

^ ' m//h o ^ <a> 

A y rf 'f>_ O 
\ 'S*. •y 




r A * 


-< 

* 

® 'U 
* <S ^ l 

% » . . A * * 

V 9^ * 0 /- > ,9 k . s 

c>» <* x T' 

• **&?*-*- % / • 

><?, 


^ /-vO O X , X>S ^ rJ * .. 

s .., % *’»»’ s v*' 
s ' * Cv V 

<* -£* - •? 
( * ^ OyV * 

</> \v 


^ < v/ * -V ^ 

**> /* V C*' t> 

> jb '^p i\' * ' h 4 O 

f <P 1 O 




'' ,o° c o. % .'■"„•>* .*♦' % *-*77,. 

,0 V '%■ " N v x A*«« "> ” 


V 


A 








A NOVEL. 


BY TIGHE HOPKINS. 


17 TO 27 VAKDEW/VTEf^ St 
•^(eWTO^K;- 

'rBi 



THE KING OF STORY PAPERS 


The New York Fireside Companion. 

A PAPER FOR THE HOME CIRCLE. 

JPure, Briglrt an.3. Interesting-. 

THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the 
best of living fiction writers. Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing ! 
ever published, and its specialties are features peculiar to this journal. 


READ OUE OFFER TO NEW SUBSCRIBERS. 

Five Dollars’ Worth for S3. 

To every new subscriber sending S3 for THE FIRESIDE COMPANION 
for 1886, we will send free a complete set of 

Macaulay’s “ History of England,” 

Seaside Library Edition, (Price 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION is the most interesting weekly paper pub- 
lished in the United States, embracing in its contents the best Stories, the 
best Sketches, the best Humorous Matter, the best Reading for Little Folks, 
Random Talks, Fashion Articles, and Answers to Correspondents, etc. No 
expense is spared to get the best matter. 

A FRESH SERMON BY REV. T. DE WITT TALMAGE IS PUBLISHED 
IN EVERY NUMBER. 


Among the contributors to The Fireside Companion are Mary E. 
Bryan, Lucy Randall Comfort, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Laura Jean Libbey, 
“Old Sleuth,” Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne,” Mary C. 
Freston, Annabel Dwight, Clyde Raymond, Kate A. Jordan, Louise J. 
Brooks, Charlotte M. Stanley, etc. 

Address GEORGE MUNRO, 

MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 



?! 


Eiffht Excellent Reasons why Every Lafty slonlfl wear 



1st. '.They need no Breaking- in. 

2d. INVALIDS can wear them with Ease and Comfort, as they yield to 
•very movement of the body. 

3d. They do not compress the most vital parts of the wearer. 

4th. They will fit a greater variety of forms than any other make. 

5th. Owing to their peculiar construction they will LAST TWICE AS 
LONG as an ordinary Corset. 

6th. They have had the unqualified endorsement of every physician who 
has examined them. 

7th. They have given universal satisfaction to all ladies who have worn 
them, the common remark being, 

“We will never wear any other make.” 

8th. They are the only Corset that a manufacturer has ever dared to 
guarantee perfectly satisfactory in every respect to the wearer, or the 
money refunded, after three weeks’ wear, even if so soiled as to be unsaleable. 


The wonderful popularity of Ball’s Corsets has induced rival manufacturers 
to imitate them. If you want a Corset that will give perfect satisfaction, 
insist on purchasing one marked, 

Patented Feb. 22, 1881. 

Ami see that the name BALL is on the box ; also Guarantee 
of the Chicago Corset Co. 

AWARDED HIGHEST PRIZES WHEREVER EXHIBITED. 

For Sale By sill Leading I>ry Goods Dealers in the 
United States, Canada and Unglnnd, 



“The Success of the Year.” 

NOW READY— A NEW BOOK 

( 

By Mary E. Bryan, author of “ManclT: 1 

“THE BAYOU BRIDE.” 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price $1.00. 


This story was written by Mrs. Bryan for The New York 
Fashion Bazar, in which magazine it attracted the most compli- 
mentary attention. It now appears 

FOE THE FIEST TIME IN BOOK FORM, 

and will be warmly welcomed by the numerous admirers of the 
gifted author. The most fastidious critics have pronounced “ The 
Bayou Bride ” to be the purest and most remarkably interesting 
novel of the year. 

This elegant volume will be -seek postpaid on receipt of 

• # 

price, $1.00. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 


P. O. Box 3751 


17 to 37 Vandewater Street, New York. 


’Twixt Love and Duty 


A NOVEL. 


By TIGHE HOPKINS. 




GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
17 to 27 Vandewater Street. 



TIGHE HOPKINS' WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION) : 


NO. PRICK. 

509 Nell Haffenden . 20 


714 ’Twixt, Love and Duty 20 







TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


CHAPTER I. 


GOOD NEWS AND BAD. 


The coachman threw the reins upon his smoking horses 
and got down from the coach. He did it with dignity, 
though quite unobserved. I am thus particular as to the 
coachman's dignity because it was out of the common in 
so fat a man, whose proper girth moreover was swollen by 
the addition of two waistcoats, two overcoats, and a driv- 
in 



Having reached the ground, and pounded it in a 
tentative way with his foot, he removed his glazed hat by 
tugging at the brim and tipping it forward at the crown, 
and, taking out a large handkerchief, scrubbed his head 
and as much of his neck as was accessible through the thick 
folds of a comforter. 

Mysterious man! 

Who has fathomed the depths of a coachman's being? 
Who can tell me of his private existence? Who knows 
whether he have any private existence? 

A puff of steam rose like a white flag and floated in the 
air half a mile away, and the train glided round the bend 
of the hill and approached the station. As it came up the 
whistle screamed shrilly. 

The coachman's brow clouded. He put his hat on with 
a jerk, and screwed it upon liis head with a vicious twist 
that made him wince. It was his daily penance. Its sequel 
was equally odd. He went off with a double handful of 
oats to an ass in a neighboring field, whose invariable habit 
it was to bray against the engine-whistle. Then he took 
his reins in hand and mounted to the box again, his great 
red face charged with an expression of unlimited contempt 
for railway trains, guards, porters, postmen on bicycles, 
and all other persons and things that had helped to sup- 


6 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


plant the race of which he was a survival. These were 
ancient grievances, but the recent opening of a branch-line 
in that neighborhood had given a new strength to them. 

Only one passenger left the train — a young man of good 
build and carriage, but with no special pretense to fine 
looks. The face, however, was essentially a pleasant one. 
If you had talked for awhile with the owner, you might 
have remembered it as a face you would willingly encounter 
again. But with the exception of the eyes, which were 
dark and singularly steady, there was no feature which 
could properly be described as handsome. The general 
expression was self-reliant, as though the young man had 
long accustomed himself to stand on his own feet. 

Being very slightly burdened with luggage, he ran up the 
steps from the platform, two at a time, and put his pleas- 
ant face out at the station-door to look for the coach. 

The coachman turned stiffly in his seat, and, recognizing 
a friend, regained his good-humor and eased his hat. 

“ Hey, Maister ArnoB, zur, 'ow be? "ow be?” 

“ Maister ArnoB ” pitched his traveling-bag on to the 
roof of the coach and climbed up after it, selecting as if 
by preference the most difficult mode of ascent. Seating 
himself under the broad wing of the coachman, he indi- 
cated his readiness to start by a brief, “ Go ahead. Job!” 

It was only a two-horse coach — and an old-fashioned 
one at that; but the coachman's flourish at starting was 
worthy the Jehu of a four-in-hand. Indeed, a man of his 
bulk and style should have driven nothing less. 

The horses pulled with a will, straining afc the traces and 
flinging up their heads with an air as though they were no 
strangers to oats. On they rattled, a good twelve miles an 
hour. The pace was exhilarating, and so was the brisk 
and tingling air. It was about half past three on a crisp 
December afternoon; and beneath the clear glances of the 
winter sun Nature seemed to begin anew a calm and order- 
ed life. The fields were freshly released from the grasp of 
the frost and divested of the snow, except that here and 
there little crisp patches lay in the hollows, checkering the 
lush greenery. The eye traveled over the foreground, with 
the timid cattle lingering by the hedges, and taking in 
the larger features of the landscape rested at length on 
the dominant hills beyond, where the snow lay, in sunshine 
and in shadow, as pure and unruffled as the sky above. 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


7 


In the course of ten minutes the coachman had exhaust- 
ed the conversational formulae proper to the occasion — 
which embraced a reference to the circumstance that 
Master Arnold had been six months away in London, a 
conjecture that Master Arnold had therefore had enough 
of London for awhile, a casual comment on the health of 
the neighborhood, and the prospect of the next county 
meet, a biographical sketch of the new huntsman, and a 
peroration in which agricultural and other “depressions” 
were traced to the malt-tax and the cutting-up of the coun- 
try by “ these 'ere wretched trains,” 

“ The malt-tax was repealed eighteen months ago. Job,” 
observed the passenger. 

The coachman said he hoped he knew what he was talk- 
ing about; but appeared after a moment's hesitation to 
entertain doubts on that point, for he spat with dexterity 
between his horses' heads, and ceased to talk at all. 

Now, this did not displease the passenger. On the con- 
trary, he was glad of it; for he was full of his own 
thoughts, which were scarcely of a kind that he could share 
with the coachman. 

His name was Arnold Lee, and he had just passed his 
twenty-third year. He had that morning left his post in 
a solicitor's office in London for a week's holiday in the 
country; and the two-horse coach, with Job on the box, 
was completing for him the final stage of his journey 
home. “ Home ” was under the roof- tree of his uncle, the 
Eev. Paul Brunskill, bachelor vicar of Three Dykes, an 
exceedingly remote parish in a far western shire. 

Young Arnold carried good news, and cherished high 
hopes. 

His heart literally bounded as he recalled triumphantly 
the words with which he had that morning quitted the 
presence of his principal. 

It was phenomenal — to be called into your chief's pri- 
vate room; to he told by a timid and suspicious man that 
you had won his confidence; to be offered at three-and- 
twenty the highest place in the office of a wealthy city 
solicitor, and told in plain terms that what he proposes 
out of his great confidence is to admit you, upon trivial 
conditions, to the actual control of his business. That 
was something to have done by five years of work. Arnold 
thrilled with honest satisfaction as he recalled that final 


8 


’TWIXT LOVE A 1ST) DUTY. 


interview with his master, Mr. Rupert Trimble, of Bedford 
Row. lie was unconscious of Job’s proximity. He drew 
himself together with a happy exclamation, and brought 
his hand with a sounding smack upon — not his knee, but 
the leather apron of the coach. 

A ■■ “ 1 ' 1 rrn may be condensed into one 



woman’s name — Marian. 


Marian, whom he had not seen for six months, whom he 
would see again to-morrow, perhaps to-night, and whom 
this good news, with which his heart was swelling, would 
gladden; for he dared to think that she was concerned in 
it almost as much as himself. The promise bis employer 
had given him that morning meant a new step in life for 
him, an advance in his profession, and every step forward 
in that was a step nearer to Marian. 

To talk about Marian to the coachman was out of the 
question; nevertheless, Arnold was burning for tidings of 
her, and so, with a lover’s cunning, he went about, and 
inquired innocently whether Job had seen Lieutenant Dean 
that day, or the day before, or within the last three days. 
Lieutenant Lemuel Dean was Marian’s uncle, with whom 
she lived. 

But*, the coachman feigned not to hear. He had excel- 
lent ears, as every coachman should have, but, like Victor 
Hugo, when people pestered him about things that did not 
interest him, he could be hard of hearing on occasion. He 
was debating within himself whether it were really possi- 
ble that the malt-tax could have been repealed eighteen 
months ago without his knowledge; for he had anticipated 
that event as a forerunner of the millennium. Conse- 
quently he paid no attention to Arnold, who relapsed 
into silence. 

A few miles more, and the scene began to wear a friendly 
aspect. The fields had a look of home, and the lanes 
branching off from the high-road, and the tiled roofs of 
farm-houses, whose comely and hospitable interiors Arnold 
knew well. 

Presently the coachman assured himself, by a process of 
reasoning which if detailed would fill two pages of this 
book, that the malt-tax had not been repealed, and coming 
to himself with a “ kick-kick” to his horses, he executed a 
flourish of his whip above the ears of the brown mare, and 
unbent his countenance. 


TWIXT LOVE AKD DUTY. 


9 


Still he said nothing about Lieutenant Dean, and Arnold 
did not want to hear anything else. But how should the 
coachman know that? 

A dull, deep, volcanic sound, somewhere in the region 
of his belt, presaged intelligence of some sort, after which 
the coachman cleared his throat and became articulate. 
Arnold saw that his Jehu was involving matters of deep 
import within himself, and he checked the further inquiry 
that was on his lips. 

“Joe Bexley’s ghoast waan’t walk no more this zide o’ 
medzummer. ” 

“ Ah — yes, yes — of course; that’s a good thing,” replied 
Arnold, as though he had heard the voice of a suddenly 
vivified Sphinx, for he did not at that moment care two- 
pence for any ghost, quick or slumbering. 

“Ye zee, Maister Arnol’, ’e laid un vair this time.” 

“Who laid who fair?” asked Arnold, vaguely and un- 
grammatically. 

“ W’y now, w’at be I a-talkin’ of but your uncle, Paas’n 
Paul, a-layin’ of Joe Bexley’s ghost?” 

“ Why could not my uncle let Joe Bexley’s ghost alone?” 

“ W’y cud’n Joe Bexley’s ghoast let daezent volk aloan? 
Zee now, Maister Arnol’, a zims to me you doan’t unner- 
stan’ thikey there ghoast. It be vifty year zens J oe Bexley 
died an’ passed away zudden like. A died o’ Zaturdy, week 
avore rents was due, and Messes Bexley — her was a hard 
ol’ zoul, her was — her thenks it’ll be zum trouble a-getten’ 
of um een. Zo her taakes an’ pickles un, an’ lays un i’ 
underground zellar, which was powerful cold, an’ gives 
out ol’ man’s bad i’ tap chamber, an’ likely vor git up 
’bout Zundy nex’. Zo rents corned een reg’lar as yerto- 
vore, an’ w’en zo be as all’s een. Messes Bexley, her tells 
volks as ’ow Joe died night avore. D’ye zee, Maister 
Arnol’? D’ye zee? Then her takes an’ buries un pooblic 
an’ zolum like. But ” — and here Job became impressive 
— “ the zperrits — o’ zich — will — walk. An’ Joe Bexley ’e 
walked a good un. Walked ol’ Peters into vits to-morrer’s 
a week! Zo volks comes, an’ they zays, zays volks, Paas’n 
Paul better lay un i’ Marvin’s Pond, zee’n as volks caan’t 
stan’ thit zort o’ thing. An’ Paas’n Paul — Maister Arnol’ 
— ’e done it, wi’ hincantazhun an’ zpreaden’ of ’ands like !’ 

— and the coachman paused and added in an awful voice — 
“like Joshuay a-zetten back o’ thikey there blessed zun!” 


10 


’twixt love and duty. 


“Had he any assistance?” Arnold asked* after a mo- 
ment’s impressive silence. “Was Lieutenant Dean there?” 

But this* like the former question of similar import* was 
fated to go unanswered* for J ob* casting a glance oyer the 
country* had his eye and attention arrested by a singular 
figure in the middle distance. 

A furlong off* a low hill* riddled with rabbit-holes* rose 
in the center of a grass-field. On one side of the hill two 
rabbits were nibbling the short sward; on the other side a 
man* lying all his length on the grass* with a gun is his 
hand* was creeping cautiously to the top; a stealthy terrier 
at his heels, whose attitude told that every hair was 
bristling and his eye like a coal. 

Job* moved by the instinctive sympathy of one sports- 
man with another* instantly reined in his horses* that the 
rattle of the coach might not disturb the game. 

Keeping his eyes fixed on the sportsman* he laid a 
weighty hand on Arnold* and whispered : 

“D’ye zee un? Thikey es Paas’n Paul a-ztalkin’ rab- 
buts. ” 

By this time the sportsman* still flat on his waistcoat, 
had crawled to the brow of the hill. The rabbits spied the 
brim of his hat and darted for their burrow, but the par- 
son’s gun was at his shoulder in a twinkling. Bang! bang! 
and bunny and his mate turned a double somersault and 
dropped stone dead three yards from where the shot had 
struck them. The terrier careered and yelped a paean* and 
Job clapped his great mittened paws and shouted; and the 
sportsman (for he merited the name) picked up the game 
and strode to where the coach stood at an angle of the 
road. Of fence and hedge he made light work* seeming to 
walk right over the one and through the other. He sprung 
down the last bank and came along to the coach. 

Altogether a notable figure* and as this type of Church- 
man is now (for better or worse) pretty nearly extinct in 
the land* a minute will not be wasted in taking stock of 
him. A big round face* of fine mahogany hue, strongly 
marked features* and a bright* jovial eye* broad forehead* 
bulging at the eyebrows* square chin* beneath which passed 
a short thick beard of a dull-gray color; a massive frame* 
which looked as though the owner might have given odds 
to Friar Tuck. This was the Iiev. Paul Brunskill, Vicar of 
Three Dykes since “the thirties,” for he was nearing his 


'twixt love axd duty. 


11 


seventieth year; a cleric of whom you would have said at a 
glance that no one of the Thirty-nine Articles had ever 
disagreed with his digestion. He barred the road in front 
of the coach, his jolly gaitered legs wide apart. The 
coachman eyed him from top to toe with boundless admir- 
ation. 

“ Welcome home, my boy!” exclaimed the Rev. Paul, in 
a lusty voice, to his nephew. “ Fve got your supper here!” 
and he clapped his hand on the pocket where he had thrust 
the rabbits, and laughed prodigiously. Job pealed in re- 
sponse. When these two huge men laughed, it was like 
the trumpeting of Neptune's tritons. 

“ Keep it up, gentleman; keep it up!” said Arnold. “ I 
haven't heard music like that for six months.” 

“Nay, a man do 'ave no room vor laugh i' Lunnon,” 
put in Job. 

“Well, come down from that; comedown, you young 
cynic,” cried the vicar. “I'd be ashamed of riding on a 
coach after six months on a stool in London. Come down 
and stretch your legs.” 

“You'll walk me off them in twenty minutes, uncle.” 
“More shame for you! Job, my lad, how old shall I be 
at Easter?” 

“Zeventy, Pass'n, zeventy, as be voretold i' Zripture.” 
“D'ye hear that, young sir? Now, are you coming? Put 
him down. Job, and call at the Vicarage as you pass. Ann 
will pay you.” 

“Well, don't run me too hard, uncle.” And Arnold 
reached the ground with a spring which showed that long 
confinement in a solicitor's office had not taken much elas- 
ticity out of his muscles. 

Job sent them off with a blast of his horn (it had be- 
longed in old days to the London coach) which would have 
shaken a fortress. The horses started off at a gallop, and 
the vicar stood in the road and hallooed till they were out 
of sight. 

They were now not more than a couple of miles from 
the Vicarage, but the Rev. Paul was out for his constitu- 
tional, and had no notion of curtailing it by taking the 
shortest way home. A detour through the fields would add 
another two miles to the distance, and into the fields the 
vicar struck, Arnold at his side. 

“ Glad to see you, my boy: very glad to see you. Well, 


12 


'twixt LOYE AKT) duty. 


what's the news? What sort of a show had the Smithfield 
Club this year?” 

“ I didn't see it, uncle.” 

“ Humph! I should think not, in boots like those; they'd 
pinch a Chinawoman. How long does it take you to get 
them on?” 

“Why, uncle, these are Waukenphast's ‘ easy broad - 
soled walking-boots.' " And Arnold looked down at his feet 
cased in boots of flexible leather, which, though strong and 
sensible, looked almost dandified as they kept step with the 
vicar's country-made highlows. 

“ Well, what have you seen? Are they going to hang that 
person who poisoned his cook? You ought to know some- 
thing about that.” 

“They hanged him yesterday, uncle.” 

“Very good; very good — though a cook can be very 
trying at times. I've had to give Ann notice.” 

“What, again, uncle?” 

“Yes; but she will go this time.” 

“ That depends upon Ann, I expect,” thought Arnold, 
who was not unacquainted with the trials of his uncle's 
menage. 

“So you've been laying a ghost, uncle, I hear.” 

“Ha! You've heard that already, have you? Where did 
you hear it?” 

“Job is full of it.” 

“A gossij)! But the whole country's full of it. I'll let 
ghosts walk the village four abreast, at high noon, and gib- 
bering, before I lay another. ” 

“ How did you lay him, uncle?” 

“Lay him, my lad! In this wise.” And raising a 
massive fist to the level of his head, he brought it down 
with a sounding thwack into the hardened palm of his 
other hand. “ He won't do it again. But never mind the 
ghost. Let the perturbed spirit rest, and tell me some 
news.” 

“Nay, but tell me your news first, my dear uncle. Re- 
member I've been away six months, and you here all the 
time. How are the lieutenant and all of them at the Vine- 
yard?” 

“Yes, yes, my dear boy, but we've both been apart six 
months, and there must be news on both sides. Well, well, 
I will tell you all my news after supper. Do you think I 


'twixt love and duty. 13 

ought to write to the bishop about that ghost? You shall 
draw up an official report for me to-morrow, and lay em- 
phasis on the fact that the Sunday after I had given the 
ghost his quietus the congregation was at least twice as 
large as usual. Now push on ahead and HI catch you in 
two minutes. You can't outstrip me far in those boots." 

So speaking, the vicar dived into a cottage they had just 
reached, where, though he was lost to sight, Arnold could 
hear him rating the occupant in good set terms for having 
his chimney choke-full of soot. The lecture closed abrupt- 
ly with the chink of a coin on the table, and the Rev. Paul 
came out fuming. 

“ When the spring comes round, if God be willing. I'll 
put in hand some rousing sanitary reforms in this place. 
They're wanted ! In all my forty years it's never been so 
bad. The dullards! I'll have such a putting-in-order that 
Three Dykes sha'n't know its own face when the thing is 
done. " 

There was less spontaneity in this outburst than might 
be imagined. It was not characteristic of the Rev. Paul 
to threaten such a violent disturbance of the social calm of 
his parish; but the fact is that the new bishop had been 
making his influence felt; and by way of concession to 
frequent representations from that quarter, the Vicar of 
Three Dykes had lately got into a way of saying that great 
reforms were needed and must he put in hand. 

The day had fallen in when they reached the Vicarage. 
A little moon slowly climbing to her high place welcomed 
the traveler's return with soft sisterly radiance; and the 
leafless poplars that belted the house on one side were 
moved by the night breeze to make their grave obeisance. 
It was deliciously still and restful; and Arnold, spite of his 
in ward, impatience touching that matter that has been hint- 
ed at, felt the quiet enter into his soul. It was home; and 
by his side was the rugged faithful old man, his uncle, 
whom he loved as a father. The low, spreading Vicarage 
was sharply outlined against the sky, and the light of the 
moon fell on the windQW of the corner chamber that had 
been “ Master Arnold's " from a lad. 

The click of the gate had been heard in the house; so 
when they reached the porch there was standing in it a 
comely, big-boned woman of severe yet not repellent aspect, 
wearing a good gown of modest color, and holding high in 


14 


’twixt love and duty. 


her hand an old-fashioned lamp, which cast a ring of light 
about her. This was Ann Hanoch, the major-domo of the 
Rev. PauTs establishment. 

“ I think I told you she must certainly go this time,” 
whispered the vicar to his nephew, hut not quite so valiant- 
ly as before, and, indeed, with a half-relenting severity. 

Now, the truth was, that in everything appertaining to 
the internal economy of the Vicarage Ann Hanoch had her 
own way. The vicar knew it, and once in every quarter he 
revolted. Regularly on pay-day the Rev. Paul had an 
“explanation” with his housekeeper during a mauvais 
quart d’heure , when no quarter was given or taken, and 
ill-luck befall the hindmost. The battle always came to an 
end in this fashion: “Very well, Ann; if that is your 
opinion you had better seek another situation.” “Thank 
you, sir; I will do so.” It never got beyond this. As for 
giving notice seriously to Ann Hanoch — pooh ! you might 
as well have given notice to the Monument. Of this the 
vicar was aware, otherwise it would never have occurred to 
him to take so rash a step, for she had been with him for 
years, was an invaluable housekeeper, and had an incom- 
parable recipe for girdle-cakes. 

“ Good-evening to you, Ann Hanoch,” said the vicar in a 
sterner tone than he would have ventured on but for the 
support of Arnold. “I have brought my nephew home, 
whom I think you know. You will give particular instruc- 
tions about his boots, which are of a curious prettiness un- 
known in these parts, and will want more attention than is 
usually bestowed on mine. My nephew has been good 
enough to give me some news of London; amongst other 
items, that they have effectually hanged the person who did 
his housekeeper to death by poison. I have expressed my 
approval of the course taken by justice, with a rider to the 
effect that a housekeeper can be very trying on occasion. 
But of course poison is poison. My nephew and I are quite 
ready for supper.” 

Ann Hanoch took no more notice of this oration than if 
it had been addressed to the moon. What she did was to 
plump her lamp down on the settle in the porch, step out 
with her cap-strings flying, take Arnold by the shoulders, 
and buss him heartily on both cheeks. Nor did the good 
lad resent this vigorous salute; on the contrary, he ex- 
pected it — it was a part of the home-coming. The touch 


’TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. i5 

of his mother’s lijos was only a dim sweet dream of his 
childhood. 

“ Love his boots! I’ll have Keturah up an hour earlier 
to scour ’em.” 

So much for that ornate harangue on the part of Parson 
Paul. 

Keturah, it may be said in passing, was the only other mem- 
ber of the vicar’s household — a wiry slip of a girl who shared 
Job’s admiration for her master, with a vast appetite, and 
nothing to show in return for her diligent efforts to appease 
it, whereby the vicar used to say that she reminded him of 
one of the lean kine of Pharaoh’s dream. 

“Well, here’s a merry Christmas to us all!” said the 
vicar, when they stood in the hall. 

In its excessive neatness, and in the quaintness of its fur- 
niture, more especially in the wide and queerly shaped 
staircase, the hall was a little suggestive of an old Dutch 
interior. It seemed to Arnold that nothing had been 
moved since he stood in it last, and as a matter of fact 
nothing had. But the door of Ann Hanoch’s particular 
cupboard in the passage leading out of’ it must have stood 
open, for there was a penetrating odor of spices and rare 
apples. 

Supper smoked in the dining-room — a long, low room 
with faded-green walls and high-backed wooden chairs 
without cushions. The vicar commonly supped on cheese 
and apples, but for this night Ann Hanoch had killed the 
fatted calf, and had dressed it learnedly. 

During the meal the vicar toasted his nephew in cider — 
he suffered no stronger liquor on his table — and Arnold 
toasted his uncle, but his heart drank to Marian. 

After supper they adjourned to Parson Paul’s study— a 
unique snuggery of its kind. The floor was of smooth 
brown stone, with no covering but a rush mat for the vic- 
ar’s feet when he sat to write his sermon at the table. 
There was an open hearth, which held a fire of peat and 
logs, the smoke from which had well seasoned the raftered 
ceiling. There ware deep recesses in the room, in one of 
which stood the vicar’s gun and fishing-tackle, and from 
the ceiling hung samples of herbs and seeds and bulbs in 
packets. The literary furniture of the room was not ex- 
cessive, and the theological volumes, though sterling of 
their kind, were a little crowded by treatises, new and old. 


16 


’TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


on the gun and the rod, together with a posse of works of 
a martial tenor, for the vicar loved a tale of battle. 

“Now then, boy,” said the Rev. Paul when he had 
spread himself in his chair, with one leg thrust against the 
fire-place, “ let us talk of your affairs. How are you pros- 
pering? Is Trimble still satisfied with you?” 

This opening was traditional. The first sitting in the 
study, on the occasion of his visits home, was always de- 
voted to a discussion of Arnold’s professional prospects. It 
was, truth to say, a subject which the vicar approached 
with no particular relish. He had an antipathy for the 
law and its professors which was partly constitutional and 
partly the outcome of a series of trying encounters with the 
local practitioner Hogben, who had figured prominently in 
an agitation against tithes. The vicar had always come off 
best in these encounters, but his anger against the man of 
parchments was not stayed. He had been grievously dis- 
appointed when Arnold announced his intention to make 
his start in life in a solicitor’s office, talked about the folly 
of putting a blood-horse to drag the parish hearse, and so 
on. But since Arnold had gone into the work with a will, 
and showed unmistakably that he meant to advance him- 
self, Parson Paul was too good an uncle to discourage him, 
besides which he knew his nephew for a young man whom 
it was uncommonly difficult to discourage. So he never 
failed, on the first evening of Arnold’s visits home, to put 
on Nestor’s cap, and a good grace, and inquire with a great 
show of interest what satisfaction he was giving to his prin- 
cipal. 

Arnold told him what the reader has already learned. 
Now, this was a substantial benefit which the vicar could 
not fail to appreciate. 

“You are a fortunate fellow, Master Arnold — yes, and 
a good and deserving fellow too. And Trimble, he’s an- 
. other good fellow. You shall carry him my compliments 
and a brace of hares when you return.” 

Then the vicar delivered a short homily on perseverance 
and its sure reward, and broke off in the middle, saying he 
would finish the subject in his Sunday sermon. 

“ And now. Uncle Paul,” said Arnold, Avlien the vicar 
had done with his homily, “ you know all that I want to 
hear from you. It is long since I have had any news of 


'TWIXT LOVE AKT) duty. 


17 


our friends at the Vineyard. I want to know how Marian 
is. " 

At this the vicar looked a little uncomfortable, and hesi- 
tated before he replied, which strengthened a suspicion in 
Arnold's mind that there was something on this subject 
which his uncle had been unwilling to communicate. 

Ordinarily, the vicar's first news when Arnold came 
home was of the Vineyard and its inmates, between whom 
and the people at the Vicarage there existed ties of the 
closest description. The two houses were divided in space 
by some three hundred yards, and no more. The friend- 
ship between Lieutenant Dean and Parson Brunskill dated 
from their college days, nearly half a century before, and 
the loves of Marian and Arnold were coeval with their 
childhood. What was the reason that the vicar had been 
so silent on this of all subjects in the world? 

After a moment's pause, the old man said: 

“ I am afraid, my boy, that you must prepare yourself 
for a little disappointment in that quarter — nay, now, don't 
look so scared about it; I hope it is nothing serious. But 
the truth is that Marian is not home, and the reason of 
that is that she is not well. The lieutenant has been sent 
for to Cambridge to the college to see her. " 

“ 111! Marian ill, and I not know of it! Why did you 
not write to me, uncle?" 

“ Well, well, perhaps I should have done so. But I kept 
it back because I still hoped that it would turn out to be 
something quite trifling, and that Lemuel would have re- 
turned with her before you came. " 

“ You hoped that, uncle? Then you do not know?" 

“ Well, no;. Lemuel has not written to me." 

“ Because Marian is very ill, uncle, very ill. I am sure 
of it," said Arnold, quite tremulously, for this sudden 
blow had completely unnerved him. 

“ I think not, my boy," answered his uncle. “ If there 
had been serious illness Lemuel would have sent me word 
at once, I am persuaded. Why, bless me, it was only the 
day before yesterday that he went." 

“ If they do not return to-morrow," exclaimed Arnold, 

“ I shall go to Cambridge." 

“ Most certainly they will return to-morrow, impatient 
fellow!" retorted his uncle. “And I shall hear from 
Lemuel by the morning post." 


18 


'twixt love and duty. 


“ Uncle, we must know,” Arnold insisted, with painful 
emphasis; “we must know. I am convinced that this is a 
very serious matter. I will take train to Cambridge my- 
self if we hear nothing in the morning. " 

“ Tut! My headlong friend, they don't want you. You 
are as impulsive as you were at ten. They would send you 
packing home on the moment. Young fellows like you 
are not allowed within the precincts of a ladies' college, and 
a very proper thing. Be a man about this, and listen to 
me. You will see them to-morrow.'' 

But Arnold's peace had been reft from him. It was a 
sudden and a keen disappointment, and smote him sorely. 
The fears that suggested themselves he could not quell: 
Marian should have been home from college a week ago; it 
must be something very serious that had not only kept her 
back but had obliged her uncle to be summoned to her. 
All the pleasure of Arnold's home-coming had been dashed, 
and deep in his heart there were misgivings that worse was 
to follow. He went up to his room with a miserable feel- 
ing of unrest, and fell on his knees and prayed. 

He would have prayed yet more fervently — were it pos- 
sible — if he could have seen what was taking place at that 
very moment in one of Marian Dean's little rooms at Cam- 
bridge. The lieutenant was sitting there, very pale and 
anxious, listening to a physician, who was speaking to him 
the gravest possible words. It was of Marian that they 
were spoken, but she did not hear them, for she was lying 
on her bed in the chamber adjoining. What was said at 
that conference, and what came of it, shall be told to the 
reader in proper course. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE NIGHT COACH. 

The candle spluttered and went out. Still Arnold stood 
beside his window, looking out over the little church-yard 
of Three Dykes toward where the cottage called the Vine- 
yard was half hidden by the winter trees. At last, with 
the sigh of a spirit utterly possessed by forebodings, 
disappointment, and weariness, he resolved to go to bed. 

Tired out, he fell asleep, but it was a restless, troubled 


'twixt loye and duty. 


19 


sleep, and full of dreams; and in a couple of hours he 
awoke again. There he lay, unquiet, and full of the fever 
of anxiety, wearying for the dawn which would not come 
one quarter of an hour sooner to lighten a sleepless lover. 

Ay, indeed, and if nature should take to shifting her 
times on this account, there would be no trusting her any 
longer; for there be many of these poor lovers keeping their 
painful vigil every night of the year; and have been, since 
Jacob lay within earshot of Laban's flock and pined for 
Rachel. 

Arnold furbished up a glimmering light, and would read, 
he thought. Nay, but the pretense was doubly painful. 
Every page was printed up and down with the name of 
Marian, and always, as it seemed, in pale and sickly letters, 
that could not stand upright. 

Should he turn out and make the best of it? No, for as 
he was thinking of that, he slept again. When . he woke 
next time and saw the room j ust growing into distinctness 
around him, the sight gave him a feeble sense of better 
cheer. He rose and looked out, but the light was only that 
of the moon, her face half hidden by driving clouds. It 
was past four o'clock. There was no sign of life without, 
no sound within. 

But Arnold- had had enough of bed: so he dressed him- 
self, and going down noiselessly, undid the loosely bolted 
door, and let himself out. 

Snow was falling lightly in single and casual flakes. The 
air was rough and wet and biting. 1 ? It was nearly dark, for 
the moon labored amongst thick clouds. Nature has no 
welcome for man at this shivering and uncanny hour. She 
wants none of him; the night is hers; let him keep abed 
whilst she frolics with the witches. 

Arnold went forward with a firm but dogged foot, not 
knowing precisely where he was goingnor how far; seeking 
vaguely the scenes that reminded him most of the absent 
one. The moan and fret of the distant waves was carried 
past him on the wind, and sometimes he could hear over- 
head the strong beating of a sea-bird's wings as it made for 
the waters. Going hither and thither, with the snow fall- 
ing faster and the clouds gathering more darkly in the sky, 
he found himself at length outside the boundary hedge of 
Lieutenant Dean's little homestead, the Vineyard. Arnold 
paused a moment, and cast a wistful look at the cottage. 


20 


’twixt loye and duty. 


but it was dark and chill, and he went on again, and 
walked a good hour more before he turned and began to 
retrace his steps. 

The night and the day were already changing places. 
The sky passed from black to gray, and that subtle silent 
transformation commenced which tells that the dawn is 
near. A soft flush came in the east, it deepened into a red 
and purple flame, and a wintery sun burst over the white 
and sleeping fields. It was full day when Arnold reached 
the Vicarage again. 

I doubt whether the Rev. Paul had ever cheated the night 
as Arnold had done on this occasion; certainly not for a 
similar reason. But he was no sluggard, and winter or 
summer he had always made the round of his yard and 
garden before breakfast. Arnold came upon him reciting 
Homer to his pigs. 

“ Hullo !" said the vicar; “not breakfast-time for a long 
while yet. What brings you out so early ?" 

“ I was out long ago. Has the post come yet?” 

“ Post! No. D'ye think we want to get up at day-break 
to read letters? The post won't be here for another three 
hours. Let's us go and see if Ann will give us breakfast 
half an hour earlier. " 

This Ann declined to do, on the ground that the vicar 
might be disposed hereafter to regard the breach of custom 
in the light of a precedent. So the gentlemen were fain to 
content themselves with an assurance that breakfast would 
be ready at the usual hour. 

“ A great woman, Ann; and about as movable as a light- 
house; shall I ever replace her?" observed the vicar, as he 
applied a match to his study fire. “ But what put it into 
your head that she would give us breakfast half an hour 
earlier?" 

“It was in your head, not mine, uncle." 

“ Was it? Well, we'd better not ask her again. Now, for 
the day; let us see. I have to make a round this morning; 
will you come with me? No, you're out of sorts; better stay 
at home and do something here. There's that report for 
the bishop, or you might lop some firewood, and the cab- 
bages wouldn't be the worse for a touch of the hoe. Do I 
smell coflee? I believe she has got the breakfast after all. " 

Arnold continued to flag, notwithstanding his uncle's ef- 
forts to rouse him. His uncle guessed the cause, and de- 


'twixt love and duty. 


21 


bated within himself whether it were best to leave him for 
awhile to his own resources. But he concluded, “ Not at 
all. Set him to work. When Fm out of sorts myself I saw 
logs for firewood. " This was taking what is more or less 
improperly called a practical' and common-sense view of the 
situation. 

To Arnold he said, when breakfast was over, “ I don't 
think I'll take you round the village, my boy. Can't show 
Three Dykes such a long face as yours at Christmas- time; 
they'd find it worse than the ghost. Leave you to yourself, 
though, and you'll mope like a sick hen. Come into the 
study. Now here's pen and paper. Set to on that report, 
and if a notion occurs to you for a sermon jot it down when 
you've finished my defense for the bishop. Now I think 
you'll be all right. If you feel more cheerful in an hour's 
time come and meet me." And the vicar took his visiting- 
hat and went out. 

The Lev. Paul Brunskill was a Churchman of an antique 
pattern. A good and faithful man according to his lights, 
but his lights were not of the newest, and his notions of 
duty, sound enough as far as they went, were something 
less than severe. Clerics of his stamp have perhaps had 
their day. The modern Church has small room for them. 
One such remains here and there, in quiet far-away par- 
ishes, seeming by a miracle to have escaped suppression 
under the hard law of the survival of the fittest; interest- 
ing at this day chiefly from the standpoint of the archaeolo- 
gist. A placid and Boeotian parish was well satisfied with 
the Iiev. Paul's ministrations, but it was long since he had 
been in touch with the world outside, and he was little fa- 
miliar with the varied forms which clerical activity has 
taken in recent years in the great centers of population. 

In the Georgian era such a clerk would have stood a 
good chance of preferment, but in these days of manifold 
and multiplied energy in spheres within and without the 
Church he had not succeeded in attracting the favorable 
notice of his ecclesiastical superiors. His friends had put 
him, when still a young man, into this small, poor living 
of Three Dykes; in middle age he awoke to find himself 
stranded, and no step upward or onward had he made 
since then. 

It was not in him to feel bitterness, and what slight re- 
grets he might have experienced in the distant days when 


22 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DETY. 


he first became aware of his hopeless isolation had long 
since vanished. He schooled himself into contentment, 
and grew fond of his little cure. 

He married the men and women whom he had baptized 
as infants; he buried their fathers, and himself became the 
father of the whole community. 

He was as a Patriarch in Israel, or the father-king of a 
Greek state in the heroic age. No authority restrained 
him, but his despotism was paternal. 

He made his rounds twice a week, on the days that best 
suited his own convenience. Thus, if he said to himself on 
Monday night, “ I'll go the rounds to-morrow," and Tues- 
day's sky promised a good day's fishing, he would fish on 
Tuesday, and make his parochial rounds on Wednesday. 
For the parish to grumble at this would have been absurd, 
for a good day's angling was followed by a liberal distribu- 
tion of the spoils. 

Well, here the old man was in his visiting-hat and sec- 
ond-best coat, setting out on his rounds this winter's morn- 
ing, within a few days of Christmas-day. 

Three Dykes had a sort of negative character of its own, 
by which I mean that it possessed few of the institutions 
one looks for in a venerable village. Indeed, it was hardly 
a village at all in the larger sense of the term. A hundred 
years before there was found in it neither ale-house, grocer, 
baker, corn-mill, tailor, shoe-maker, blacksmith, apothe- 
ary, nor midwife; nor was it much more liberally fur- 
nished at the period with which this story is concerned. 

The church had a low tower and a pitched roof, and 
three stoves to warm it. 

“ I'll write a history of Three Dykes one of these 
days," said the vicar to himself, as he turned into the 
straggling street. He had made the same remark any 
time these twenty years, but the work was yet to do. 

He presented himself at the cottage of William Green, 
demanded to see William, and fined him sixpence for keep- 
ing his hat on in church. 

“ It was a piece of vile contempt, William, and shall be 
made an example of. You will pay sixpence into the 
poor-box. If your head is cold, sit against the stove. " 

He knocked at the door of George Devenish, and found 
George in bed with the rheumatism. 

“ George," said the vicar, sternly, “ you are too young 


’twixt love and duty. 


23 


a man to have come fairly by the rheumatism. There has 
been more poaching lately than ever, Fm told. I caught 
a poacher once, and put my stick about his bones. Get 
well of that rheumatism, George. Wouldn’t take my walks 
at night, if I were you. ” 

He came upon a child playing truant under the very 
shadow of the school-house; in fact, with his back against 
it. 

“ What’s this? Playing truant the day before the holi- 
days! Get in with you — get in. Who d’ye think ever got 
any learning into his head by bumping his back against 
the school-house?” 

He called on Mrs. Cordukes and found her in tears. 
Death had just removed her old friend and neighbor, Mrs. 
Higgins, but it was not for that she wept, but for the un- 
kindness with which Mrs. Higgins, the day before her 
death, had received Mrs. Cordukes’s last request. 

“ I did ax zhe if zlie chanc’d across ma James o’ tli’ 
ither zide, be zure an’ tell en thikey there mor’gage es ahl 
zettled; and her zays she’ve gat better things’n that to 
thenk on.” 

“ Well, well, come now, Mrs. Cordukes, this is foolish. 
What is the mortgage to James now? And do you lliink 
Mrs. Higgins could go clanking through heaven to lind 
your James? Dear! This is a foolish generation.” 

And so the vicar went from house to house amongst his 
people, playing the comforter here, the medicine-man 
there, the counselor and lawgiver everywhere. 

Arnold was “left sitting,” with his feet on the rush 
mat, his knees under the table, in the vicar’s study. Ink 
and paper were before him, and he was in full possession 
of his uncle’s wishes on the subject of the report to the 
bishop. But he did not write it. He did not make an at- 
tempt to write it. The poor fellow was desperately out of 
sorts. He could not rid his mind of the belief that Marian 
was seriously ill, far away from home; and while lie 
yearned for tidings of her he dreaded to receive them. 

Surely the post was late? He was very glad of that; he 
was very angry at it. He did not know what he felt; his 
mind was a mere chaos of doubt, anxiety, and fear. 

He pushed the paper away and went out, walked up and 
down the garden, turned into the yard, pulled oil* his coat. 


24 


, TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


and set to work to hack up logs for firewood. The vicar 
would have said “ Bravo !” had he seen him. 

He felt the better for the exercise, and stuck to the ax 
till he perspired at every pore. He had raised a goodly 
pile of logs when he finished. He ought then to have gone 
back to the report, but he did not. 

The post came just as he was adding the last log to the 
pile, and he went hurriedly to take the bag; unlocked it, 
and glanced at the contents. But there was no letter from 
Lieutenant Dean. He threw the letters down with an im- 
patient exclamation, and set off to walk to the Vineyard. 
“ There may be a letter there,” he thought. But there 
was none. The servant had received no advices whatever 
from her master or his niece; had heard nothing since the 
lieutenant went away; could not say when they would re- 
turn. 

Arnold turned and went home, worse at heart than ever. 

In these few hours his feelings had deepened vastly. He 
felt toward Marian as he had never felt before. On his 
side there had been a strong and single-hearted love ever 
since he began to be a man; yet a steady and a quiet love. 
It had not been demonstrative, scarcely even had it openly 
declared itself. That Marian knew of it he could not 
doubt, yet he had never asked to be accepted as her lover. 
Was it necessary? 

They had been side by side since children; had formed 
the same tastes in childhood, had cherished the same hopes 
and fancies; and the partial separation brought about when 
Arnold went to begin life in town, and Marian went full 
of ambition to college, had not divided them in thought or 
heart. Long ago there had taken place that complete in- 
terchange of feeling and emotion which results in a sort of 
spiritual identity. 

What need that Arnold should say to Marian, ( 1 1 love 
you?” But he knew now that his love was a passion, 
strong, and all-possessing. Think, then, of his disquiet. 

He turned out of the lane in which the lieutenant's cot- 
tage stood, went through a field or two, and struck into 
the high-road, not caring to go in search of his uncle, and 
in no particular hurry to reach home. 

But the Rev. Paul w r as a person whom you were always 
pretty certain to meet when and where you least expected 
to encounter him. 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


25 


Arnold came upon him a quarter of a mile from the 
Vicarage, cheapening a turkey with a man who was taking 
a drove to the market town. 

“ Strange,” said the parson to his nephew, “ but I quite 
forgot till I met this man that we hadn't a turkey for 
Christmas. What d'ye think of this bird — is there a meal 
on him?'' 

The vicar had a keen relish for a bargain, and always 
drove a smart one. 

He bought the turkey cheap, and drove it home at the 
point of his stick. In the yard he handed it over to Ke- 
turah, who took a gross delight in slaying birds for the 
table. 

“Finished the report?'' asked the vicar, when he had 
seen the turkey bestowed in the coop. 

“H'm! I fancy that matter will want a good deal of 
thought,'' replied his nephew; but it was a weak evasion. 

“Well, I believe you're right,'' said the vicar. “It's 
not a thing you can dash off in a hurry. I'll tell you what, 
we'll walk over to the kennels this afternoon and have a 
look at the hounds; we can talk it over on the way.'' 

They walked to the kennels, saw the hounds, and dis- 
cussed the report. It was growing dark when they set out 
for home. Half a mile from the Vicarage, Arnold gave 
his uncle the slip, and went over to the Vineyard. 

It was a fool's errand, he knew. Nothing could have 
happened since the morning; there could be no fresh news, 
for there were no means by which it could have come. 

As he neared the cottage he heard the sound of wheels 
upon the road. He stopped and listened. It was the 
coach, for he caught an echo of Job's strong blast on his 
horn. 

He climbed the bank, and far down the road in the gath- 
ering dusk he saw the coach approaching. A feeling half 
hopeful came over him. He strained his eyes to see what 
passengers Job carried. But it was too dark. He could 
discern no more than the dim outline of the coach looming 
far down the road. 

If there were passengers for the Vineyard Job would 
stop at the corner. The coach came clattering along. At 
the corner Job reined in his horses with a jerk. 

Arnold ran forward at full speed. As he neared the 
coach a voice called from the inside, and Job turned his 


26 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


horses and drove down the lane toward the cottage. He 
had never driven off the high-road before. But it was im- 
possible Marian should be coming home in this way! The 
coach passed Arnold, and went on, and stopped outside 
the gate of the lieutenant's cottage. Arnold was there al- 
most as soon. 

A tall thin figure, cloaked from head to foot, got down 
from the coach. It was the old lieutenant, very grave and 
silent, with an anxious look on his face. 

He did not at first recognize Arnold, but some one else 
did. 

“ Uncle, it is Arnold !” a faint but most sweet voice ex- 
claimed from the interior of the coach, as Arnold stepped 
into the light of its lamp. 

He was already at the door, and as Marian raised herself 
with an effort, and he saw how complete was the wreck- of 
her physical powers, he lifted her unresistingly, with her 
cloak all gathered about her, and carried her into the 
house. 

This, at any rate, was better than suspense. 

Six months — a moment of youthful life — and it was as 
when the fierce July sun blights at a stroke the bloom and 
freshness of your brightest flower. The leaf and petal re- 
main, but the current of their life is stayed, and death is 
imaged in their drooping helplessness. 


CHAPTER III. 

WHAT THE DOCTORS SAID. 

He carried her into the little parlor, and laid her on the 
sofa. The coming of the lieutenant and his niece had not 
been announced, yet everything was in readiness. The 
candles were lighted, the fire was ruddy, the sofa was 
drawn before it. 

“ Lie there, and do not stir; we will do everything for 
you," said Arnold; and she gave him a quiet smile, and an 
unspoken gratitude shone in her tender eyes. 

Anxious as he was, it was a delight to move about her, 
to unwrap her, to put the pillows about her head — to do a 
hundred little things for her comfort. And he did them 
so gently and noiselessly. 


'TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


27 


“ One would think you had been training for a nurse,” 
she said, with the ghost of her old laugh. 

The old servant, who had carried Marian as a babe, 
looked so scared to see her young mistress in this sad 
plight that Marian had to assure her that she was much 
better, and really only a little tired. “ See, there is my 
uncle, " she said. “ He is very hungry, and wants his sup- 
per. Look to him, Phoebe; Arnold shall be my squire to- 
night, and get me all I want. ” 

She spoke cheerily, but Arnold looked at the grave face 
of the lieutenant, and read there a tale which contradicted 
his niece's words. 

“ What must we do for her, lieutenant?” he asked. 

The lieutenant passed his hand nervously across his 
eyes, and answered, in his slow, indecisive manner, “Eh? 
Yes; she must be very quiet. I think, my* dear, that I 
must not let you talk — that is what the doctor said. ” 

“ The doctor must be obeyed. Uncle Lemuel. You hear, 
Arnold, that I am not to talk to you. But I may talk to- 
morrow, uncle, may I not?” 

“ To-morrow, dear? Yes; if you sleep well to-night you 
may, I think, talk to-morrow — a little. But you are to be 
very quiet. Has Phoebe lighted the fire upstairs?" 

“ The fire is lighted, sir.” 

“ Then, my dear, as the fire is lighted, I think it would 
be better we should get you to bed at once. That is what 
the doctor said. ” 

“The doctor must be obeyed, dear uncle. Say good- 
night to me, Arnold, and keep all your news for to-mor- 
row. ” 

“I shall carry you to your room first,” he answered; 
and she let him lift her from the sofa and carry her up 
the stairs, and at the chamber-door he gave her into Phoebe's 
hands. 

“You must not look so sad and solemn,” she said, with 
her sweet smile. “ Now that I have come home I shall be 
well again at once. Good-night, Arnold, good-night; 
come early to-morrow. How much we have to tell each 
other!” 

The lieutenant, after watching them up the stairs, had 
gone back to the parlor and seated himself mechanically in 
his high-backed chair at the corner of the fire-place. He 
seemed quite dazed, and took no notice of his supper. 


28 


*TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


though it was many hours since he had eaten. The fingers 
of one hand moved in a vague, tremulous way in the folds 
of his long blue cloak which hung over the back of the 
chair. 

Arnold went up to him. There was a bond of warm af- 
fection between these two. 

“ Lieutenant,” he said, “you are very much distressed. 
Tell me faithfully what do you think of Marian. ” 

“ Eh? Not to-night. No; I seem not to be able to talk 
to-night. It has come upon me so suddenly. To-morrow, 
to-morrow; and bring Uncle Paul with you; I have much to 
say to him.” 

“But she is a little better? she says she is better.” 

“ She does not know — she does not know. I must talk 
to Paul about what the doctor said. Come you both over 
to-morrow. J shall be more capable then; to-night I am 
quite astray.” 

And the lieutenant, whose mind always hung fire a lit- 
tle, and who seemed completely prostrated this evening, 
gave Arnold his hand, but he did not go with him to the 
door, as his general habit was. 

Arnold went out alone and returned to the Vicarage. 

“ Pll shoot no more rabbits for you /” said the vicar 
when he presented himself. “ They are boiled to rags! 
Where have you been star-gazing now?” 

“ They have come home. Uncle Paul.” 

“Ha! didn't I say they would come to-day? How is 
she?” 

“She seems completely broken down.” 

“ As bad as that? The poor child! W ell, I always de- 
nounced that college. And Lemuel — how is Lem?” 

“ He is terribly upset; he has scarcely a word to say.” 

“ Knocked over, eh? Poor Lem! He never could keep 
his head in bad weather. Does he want me?” 

“Yes; he wants to talk with you to-morrow.” 

“ We'll go the first thing after breakfast. Poor Marian! 
But don't look so sad, my boy; she'll soon get well at home. 
She has been working too hard; it's the examination for 
degree that has done it. What a nice-looking girl like 
Marian want’s with a degree is more than I can imagine. 
If she had taken half the trouble to find a decent husband 
— yourself, for instance — I'd have thought better of it. 
Bing for the rabbits.” 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


29 


Breakfast the next morning was a very brief meal with 
Arnold; he was impatient to start before the vicar had well 
done with his second egg. 

“I’ll leave you to follow, uncle,” said Arnold, who knew 
that the old man would find a score of small matters to at- 
tend to before he was ready to go. 

“ Fll be up with you at the turnip-field, or Fll go without 
my dinner,” replied the vicar, without looking up from his 

eg fhe sun was just kindling the fields; it was a perfect 
winter’s morning. On such a morning Arnold and Marian 
had gone a-skating hardly a year ago. To-day the blue 
smoke curled from the chimney of the room where Marian 
lay on the couch before the fire. 

She had insisted on going down after breakfast. Arnold 
would be there early, she said, and she meant to receive 
him in state. 

She was nestling, swan-like, amongst her pillows. There 
was a winning and a penetrating grace in her manner 
which belonged entirely to herself. She was full three 
years younger than Arnold — a woman almost, yet still a 
girl, and the clear spring fragrance of girlhood about her, 
which is like nothing so much as the smell of woodland 
violets. Ay, and there was a woodland purity in her 
nature, for she had looked on the open sky all her life, and 
on trees and wild flowers, and all natural things. There 
was a primrose tenderness in her complexion; her eyes were 
a deep brown, changing their shade often in changing- 
lights; and her hair was brown too, and of so fine a texture 
that if you had not seen it loose on her neck as Arnold saw 
it that morning, you would never have guessed the wealth 
of it. 

Arnold entered in anxious mood, but the first night’s 
rest at home had refreshed her, and she was brighter, and 
rallied him on his solemn air. 

“ Here’s a fearful personage! You look as if you had 
seen Mr. Brunskill’s ghost, Arnold. By the bye, he must 
tell me about the ghost himself; I have had Phoebe’s ver- 
sion, but that won’t do at all. Have you brought Mr. 
Brunskill with you, Arnold?” 

“ He will be here immediately. But, Marian, are you 
better — are you really better?” 

“ Don’t I look better?” 


30 


’twixt love and duty. 


“Yes, you do indeed! But, you know, that does not 
satisfy me; I want to hear you say it. Tell me just how 
you feel." 

“ He talks to me like the doctor! Well, you shall be the 
doctor, Arnold, if you like — Dr. Lee, the brilliant young 
practitioner, whom all the Faculty are jealous of because 
lie is so much cleverer then they. Now, feel my pulse and 
take my temperature, and then shake your head and say 
the case exhibits such peculiar features that you can not 
pronounce on it immediately !" 

“ Stop, stop! you must not talk so rapidly. The doctor 
forbids it. He prescribes repose, and a few words at a 
time, and quietly, because there is so much to be said. 
Now I am going to drop the doctor, and you are going to 
tell me everything. You can't think what a miserable fel- 
low I have been since I came home. " 

“ And all about me, Arnold?" 

“ All about you, Marian." 

“ Who told you that I was ill, Arnold?" 

“ Uncle Paul. But it was not from him that I should 
have heard it first, Marian. " 

“You mean that I ought to have written to you, or 
Uncle Lemuel ought to have written. But he did not know 
it any .sooner than Mr. Brunskill, and a week ago I did not 
know it myself." 

“ It happened as suddenly as that?" 

“It seemed to come in a moment. You know I was 
working very hard for the degree. I worked night and 
day; I seemed to want no rest; I had never felt so strong 
in my life. But three weeks ago I began to lose my sleep 
at night, just as you did when you were reading for your 
last examination. There was nothing but that, and even 
the sleeplessness did not seem to matter, for I worked closer 
than ever. At the last I seemed to have double strength. 
For three days I read as I had never read before, and then 
— I don't know any more. The girl I was reading with 
came to my room on the morning of the fourth day, and 
found me on the floor insensible. " 

“ Ah, but it was wicked, very wicked of them to let you 
work so," said Arnold. 

His eyes had filled with tears, and he took one of her 
hands in his and held it close. 

“ No one was to blame, Arnold. There were others who 


'twixt love and duty. 31 

read quite as hard as I did. If I had slept, no harm would 
have come.” 

“But when they found you insensible, Marian?” 

“ Well, then the doctor came, and Uncle Lemuel was 
sent for.” 

“And what did the doctor say?” 

“ I think he said more than he need have done. He did 
not say very much to me, but he frightened poor Uncle 
Lemuel dreadfully. I think he told him that I must be 
sent away to France or to Madeira, or somewhere else. He 
might just as well have said to Hew Zealand, for of course 
it is absurd. And he told me that I was not to read at all, 
which is sadder than anything.” 

Arnold looked exceedingly grave. He doubted whether 
Marian had been told everything. The effort of talking 
had exhausted her, and now she lay back with the color 
passing from her cheeks and a faint moisture on her fore- 
head. 

“ Dear Marian, if the doctor says you must go away for 
a time, you must go.” 

“ Arnold, you know it is not possible. Uncle Lemuel 
has already done more for me than he can afford. While 
I have been at college and Lucy has been at school in 
France, Uncle Lemuel has been very poor at home. He 
has taken to his old military cloak again this winter be- 
cause he would not buy himself a new one. And I see that 
he has not put up the new arbor he wanted in the garden, 
nor the fence round the paddock. No, he shall not spend 
any more on me. ” 

Arnold was silent. He was putting to himself the bit- 
ter question. What was to be done supposing it were neces- 
sary for Marian to go away, and there were no means 
found of sending her? 

Marian saw the trouble in his face, and made haste to 
say: 

“Dr. Grey is coming this afternoon. He knows me 
much better than the Cambridge doctor, and he will say 
that a little rest at home is all I need. See, there is Mr. 
Brunskill with Uncle Lemuel. Go and say, Arnold, that 
I want him to show me how he laid the ghost.” 

The vicar and the lieutenant were pacing the narrow 
path of the garden. The mild wrinkled features of the 
lieutenant wore a strange and anxious look, and he passed 


32 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


his hand frequently over his soft gray eyes, which was his 
habit when distressed. 

“ So that is the opinion of the Cambridge man, is it, 
Lem?” asked the vicar. 

“Yes, Paul. That is what he said. He told me that 
the night before we left. He said the case left no room for 
doubt.” 

“You shouldn’t have sent her there, Lem. Noplace 
for her. I’d have taught her myself. ” 

“ It is fifty years since you and I were at college, Paul.” 

“Tut! I take it, Lemuel, that the fundamentals are 
still the same. If they are not, so much the worse. I tell 
you I would have taught lier handsomely. ” 

“ Well, I am obliged to you, Paul; I am obliged to you. 
But it is all too late now.” 

“ I will not hear you say it. This Cambridge man, I 
don’t trust him. He did not know the girl; he judged at 
a glance. Wait until Grey comes. You will see what he 
will say.” 

“ Ay, ay; we will wait for confirmation. But suppose 
that Grey says — ” 

“Uncle Paul, you are to come at once and show Marian 
how you laid the ghost,” called Arnold. 

“ Beshrew the ghost! Has Marian heard of it too? An 
untimely specter! I’ll come. I’ll come.” 

“ Well, lieutenant, what have you told my uncle?” asked 
Arnold, as he joined the lieutenant in the garden. 

“ We are waiting for Dr. Grey, Arnold. He is coming, 
you know, this afternoon. Paul thinks we need arrive at 
no decision until he has been. She is brighter to-day, eh? 
What do you think. Arnold?” 

“ Yes, she is brighter, certainly. But I should like to 
know exactly what the Cambridge doctor said.” 

“You shall know, Arnold; you shall know. But let us 
wait for Dr. Grey. He has known her from a child, you 
see.” 

They had not long to wait, though Arnold chafed be- 
cause the minutes were not seconds. 

Dr. Grey came at lunch-time. The lieutenant received 
him, and had five minutes’ conversation with him in his 
study. Then he took him to Marian in the parlor. He was 
with her for an hour. When he left, Arnold took his place 


'twixt love and duty. 


33 


at once, and the doctor went to the garden and was in con- 
sultation for some time with the lieutenant and the vicar. 

“ What did he say, Marian?" was Arnold's eager question. 

“ Not very much, Arnold, after all," 

“Not very much in an hour!" 

“ I mean not much about myself. He was telling me 
stories most of the time. He does not think me a very bad 
case, I am sure, for he only said, * We shall see/ when I 
told him the Cambridge doctor's dictum about my having 
to be sent away. But he said I had been up long enough 
for to-day, and that you were to carry me upstairs again 
at once." 

When Arnold was walking home with his uncle, and not 
until then, he learned the doctor's fiat. 

“ I had better tell you at once, my boy, what Grey said 
to us. " And there was a kindly and almost gentle touch 
in the vicar's voice as he spoke. “ It is very grave news 
indeed; very sad news — for you, and for all of us. Grey 
says the Cambridge doctor did not overstate the case in the 
least. Marian must leave England at once, or she can not 
live six months." 


CHAPTER IV. 


AN IK SP I RATIO XT. 

There is a terrible situation in a story by Poe of a pris- 
oner who wakes in the dead of night to find that the four 
walls of his prison are closing in on him. He stands in 
the midst — helpless, gazing, while death creeps to him. A 
fate as resistless seemed to confront Arnold. He had, you 
see, made Marian's fate his own. 


In the midst of some thickets, not more than a mile and 
a half from the Vicarage, was a wild and lonely place called 
Canvey’s Cave. In this solitude, centuries before, a fanatic 
had buried himself from men. Thorns and nettles had 
covered the face of the hermit's lair, and the ground all 
about was broken and rocky. The place was girt with 
stunted and twisted trees. It was the most solitary spot 
for miles round. Few of the peasant people went near it 
by day; none of them would pass it by night. In front of 


‘34 ’TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 

the cave was an even strip of ground the length of a sentry’s 
beat. 

And here was Arnold. 

To this place his wanderings had led him when he fled, 
as it were, on hearing the words that seemed the doom of 
Marian and himself. Night was falling, but he neither 
knew nor cared. Restless and wrestling in spirit, he paced 
to and fro across the bit of level ground. 

The kaleidoscope of the future had been broken all in a 
moment. There was nothing before him but this — that 
Marian must go from England at once, or she could not 
live six months. This summed up all. To this small, 
hard issue Arnold’s universe was reduced. He felt the re- 
sponsibility his own, yet was powerless to move. And she 
must die, for she could not go from England. 

None knew better than Arnold that the lieutenant, her 
nearest relative, was powerless to help her. Marian’s edu- 
cation had crippled him. “I have nothing to leave her,” 
the old man had said years before. “At least I will fit 
her to make her own way when she is alone. ” And for this 
end he had spent three fourths of his narrow means; had 
denied himself, and lived hardly, caring nothing if only a 
future might be secured to Marian. 

And this was wasted; for Marian, in her zeal to repay 
her uncle, had brought nerself to the brink of physical ruin. 

There was no way out of it; there was neither retreat nor 
advance. It was as when a traveler has lost his way 
amongst trackless mountains in an unknown region; he has 
climbed to the edge of a precipice; he can go no step high- 
er, and descent is impossible. 

It was pitiful to see how Arnold agonized. He clinched 
his hands, and writhed — not in spirit only, but in body. 

Night came down rapidly. The moon would not rise for 
full two hours, and it was now almost dark. The trees 
creaked in the wind, but all else was silent. 

Arnold quivered under the strain of his feelings. A 
horrible sense of desertion came, over him. It seemed as 
though Marian were being abandoned, and he with her. 

To quit England at once, or die in six months! And no 
way of going, and no one to help her! He groaned aloud, 
and an inarticulate prayer shaped itself within him that a 
way might be found to save her, and that he might be the 
instrument. They say that prayer like this, where the 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


35 


self-effacement is complete, wing the swiftest path to 
Heaven. But the very heavens seemed obdurate, as he 
searched the present and the future for some atom of en- 
couragement. What was the present or the future to him? 
He would surrender them both to save Marian. Would be 
a bond-slave if she might only live ! 

What was that? A bond-slave — to save Marian! 

Arnold stood still in his walk, arrested, as it were. The 
thought took form in his mind, almost in the instant of its 
entering. He was illumined by it, and it sent a glow 
through him, from head to foot. 

Yes, he could do it! There was sacrifice in it — such 
sacrifice as youth and love might glory in with equal tri- 
umph. 


CHAPTER V. 

TO TOWN BY THE NIGHT TRAIN. 

“ Pel give ye two shillings, and no more,” said the vicar. 

The messenger looked doubtfully at the telegram in his 
hand, uncertain whether to part with it at this price. 

“Ha zed I shude ax vor tu an* drippence, Paas'n,” an- 
swered the queen's representative, at length. 

“You may ask for anything you like, but you'll get no 
more than two shillings from me. Don't you know how 
far you have carried the telegram?'' 

“ Ekal tu vour mile an' a liaf, Paas'n.'' 

“Four miles to an inch. Will ye step it with me?” 

“ You'm a girt man vur your joak, Paas'n,” chuckled 
the messenger. 

“ Ho, I am not a great man for my joke. Ask any one 
in Three Dykes if I joke above once a month. How, here's 
your two shillings, and give me the telegram. If that's my 
nephew coming up the road tell him there's a telegram 
waiting for him. Off with you !” 

“A telegram for me, uncle?” and without staying to 
hear how the messenger had demanded threepence too 
much for carrying it, and how the vicar had positively 
refused to pay it, Arnold took the telegram and went on 
into the house. The vicar went after him in some excite- 
ment. Telegrams were formidable interruptions of the 
placidity of life in Three Dykes, 


36 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


Arnold took out the telegram and read it, and his heart 
leaped within him. 

It contained no more than a brief question from Mr. 
Trimble respecting the business of a client. Arnold might 
have dispatched by wire an answer of equal brevity, and 
settled the matter out of hand. But to realize the notion 
that had flashed through his brain half an hour ago it was 
necessary that he should return to town at once. How to 
excuse himself to his uncle was the question that had per- 
plexed and well-nigh baffled him as he walked home from 
Canvey's Cave; but here was his answer ready made. 

He turned to his uncle, and said, as demurely as pos- 
sible, “I must go to town at once, uncle." 

“ To town? To-night? What d'ye mean? Why, you Ve 
barely come out of it!" 

“ That's true, uncle; but I must go back again to-night." 
And the sly fellow tapped the telegram with his finger as 
much as to say, “ Here are my commands, you see. I have 
no alternative." 

“What's the telegram?" inquired his uncle next. 

“ It is from Mr. Trimble. Here, read it, uncle." 

“ Oh, from Trimble. Well, if 'tis Trimble's business, I 
suppose you'd best go. But how you're to get to London 
to-night, I don't know." 

Arnold, however, had already planned his journey. 

“ It is hardly seven o'clock," he said. “ A quick horse 
would just catch the night train for me. I shall run up 
to John Finch and ask him to drive me with his black mare; 
she can do the ten miles in an hour. " 

In less time than it took the vicar to collect his wits and 
give birth to an appropriate reflection, Arnold had told 
Ann Hanoch that his box must be packed immediatehq 
and was on his way to the Shepherd's Crook Inn, a couple 
of hundred yards down the road. 

The landlord and genius of the Shepherd's Crook was 
young John Finch, known to an admiring circle of friends 
as “Varmer Jan Vinch," an athlete of more than local 
fame, who had a grand Irish mare, which none but he 
could drive. The neighbors said of Black Sal that she 
could “lick tha railraud;" but so far as concerned the 
speed of the local trains in those parts this was a poor 
compliment. 

To Yarmer Jan Vinch Arnold, went in his need, 


WIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


37 


The bar of the Shepherd’s Crook had its posse of drowsy 
topers, who roused themselves at sight of Arnold, and gave 
him greeting. 

“Zo’s, Maister Arnol’, zo’s! ’Ere’s merry Kursmiss! 
Wiss zoop zommat?” 

“ I want John Finch. Is he here?” 

“ Ha wis ’ere dree minnits agan. Ha wis zmoakin’ es 
baccy an’ drinkin’ es pot jist now. Jan Vinch, wheer be?” 

“ Wha cals?” came in stentorian tones from the kitchen, 
and Arnold went in there. The young Anak was eating 
his supper, but he got up at once with a face of welcome, 
and proffered a hand about the size of a small plateau. 
“ Zo’s, Maister Arnol’! Du zim ’ears like zens I zeed you. 
Wiss yet zom mait wi’ me?” 

“No, John, no; go on with your supper. I want you to 
do me a kindness. I must go to London to-night, and with 
your black mare I could just catch the train. Will you 
drive me, John?” 

“ W’y zartin zuer, Maister Arnol’. Wis jist a-thinkin’, 
I wis, thet Black Sal es a yettin hur ’ead aff i’ tha stabul. ” 

Here Mrs. Finch, senior “Jan’s mither,” came in, and 
was addressed by her son. 

“ Ole humman, Maister Arnol’ an’ me es agwain tu Lun- 
non. Leastways, Maister Arnol’s agwain to Lunnon, an’ 
I’ze agwain drive unto tha railraud. Wis tul Dick tuyoke 
thic mare?” 

“ Good fellow, John — but that you always were. Thank 
you — thank you. We must be off in ten minutes; we 
shall barely do it then. ” 

Arnold just waited to see Black Sal brought out snorting 
from her stable, heard Dick issue the not unnecessary 
warning to the onlookers to “ ztan vrim hur heels,” and 
then set off down the road again, resisting the general in- 
vitation of the" bar to “wet es wissel wi’a drap zider.” 

“ Uncle,” he said to the Rev. Paul, who had hardly yet 
taken in the situation, but was giving ponderous directions 
for the packing of the bag, “ you must explain my going 
away to Marian and the lieutenant. I hope to be back to- 
morrow evening. Now, here’s John with the mare. Give 
me the bag. Good-bye — good-bye.” 

“ There must be fifty things I w^nt from town if I could 
think of them. But get me some copper-caps and a prun- 
ing-knife at all events,” said the vicar. “ Good-bye, my 


38 'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 

boy. I want some new shears,, too, but you'd forget them 
like as not. Keturah, do you want that mare to bite your 
head off? Whew! There they go !" 

For in less than a minute, and before any one in the 
house was well awake to the fact of his departure, Arnold 
had mounted beside John, the black mare had plunged, 
reared, and hurled herself forward like a thunder-bolt, 
and the night had swallowed up the gig and its occupants. 

“ Humph! the youngster has go in him," muttered the 
old vicar, as he shut the gate and took his way back to the 
house. If I'd ever been able to make my mind up and 
act on it in that style, I might have been a bishop by this 
time. Pooh! did I ever want to be a bishop? Keturah, 
wash your face, and bring your Catechism into my study. 
It's fit that I began to get you ready for Confirmation." 

The hoofs of Black Sal, rough-shod for the winter roads, 
thundered along the lane. As they got out on to the high- 
road John brought her from a mad gallop to a superb trot; 
but the pace — fifteen miles an hour at least — was too stiff 
to last, so he let her go at it for a couple of hundred yards, 
and then settled her down to her own ten-mile speed, and 
knew that she was good for the journey. The moon would 
not be serviceable for an hour yet, but John could have 
driven, as he said, “ wi'es eyes shet;" and as for Black Sal, 
she knew whose hand was on the rein. 

J ohn was bent on catching the train, the mare was bent on 
doing John's bidding, Arnold was brimful of his quixotic 
scheme. So, while Black Sal forged ahead in splendid style, 
swerving not a hair's-breadth from the center of the road, 
though it was pitch-dark four yards before her nose, the two 
men were silent. It was a neck-and-neck race for the train. 

Arnold had scarcely dared as yet to shape his thoughts 
in words. His brain seethed with his great idea. It lay 
there just as it had come to him; he had hardly brought 
reason to bear upon it. Heaven had inspired him with it, 
he thought, and Heaven would help him to realize it. 

At the end of three quarters of an hour the black mare's 
fiery speed had not slackened one degree, but the glimmer 
of the lamp showed here and there a faint white streak on 
her glossy coat. 

“ Zwettin!" said John, laconically. 

Arnold looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes only, 
and three miles to go. 


TW1XT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


39 


“ Bit doan’t you be vussled, Maister Arnol’,” said John. 
“I’ze bin kippin of her in — look at her now! My ivers ! 
look at her now !” 

A mere shake of the reins did it. The mare sprung for- 
ward as if she had suddenly been released from the shafts, 
and the gig flew over the glassy road. Since the day when 
the Customs officers chased the smugglers there had been 
no such going as this under the canopy of the night. Two 
miles were covered in no time. 

Presently the clang of a bell was heard in the distance — 
faint at first, and then louder, as the wind shifted for a 
moment. 

“ Thic es tha railraud bull” exclaimed John. 

Arnold heard it too, and began to look anxiously for the 
station lights. 

“ Com, lass, com! Diss’n let thic machine-oss lick thur!” 
cried John; and Black Sal put out again, and the clash of 
her hoofs upon the road drowned the noise of the bell. 

Luckily the train did not always follow hard upon the 
bell in those parts, and it was but just lumbering up to the 
platform whon John Finch reined in the gallant black at 
the station door. 

“ Thank you, John, a thousand times!” said Arnold, as 
he jumped from the gig. “ I don’t know which to thank 
most, you or Black Sal. What shall I bring you from Lon- 
don, John?” 

“ Vrim Lunnon, Maister ArnoP? W’y zee now; there’s 
nort Fze waunt; bit you mit git tu ur dree ounces znufi 
vur veyther. Tha znuff i’ these pairts es vury quare ztulf, 
an’ doan’t zim tu zute veyther’s noas. Git veyther zom 
znuif in Lunnon, Maister Arnol’. ” 

Assuring John that he would not forget this commission, 
Arnold skeltered down to the platform, bought a ticket, 
and just secured a seat in an empty carriage as the train 
was wheezing out of the station. 

Slow traveling now, and bitter cold; but Arnold’s blood 
was still at fever heat. At the end of an hour the junction 
was reached, where he had to change and wait for the 
London train. 

The London train was late, and Arnold, who had no 
patience to sit, paced up and down, the platform. By this 
time he was both cold and hungry, and weariness of body 
began to lead up to a reaction of mind. 


40 


'twixt loye and duty. 


Now for the first time Arnold began to submit bis 
scheme to the process of criticism — to bring it under the 
review of consciousness; and the more closely he ex- 
amined it in the light of reason the stranger the shape it 
took. Yes, it was undoubtedly a very singular scheme. 

After forty minutes of this exercise — growing colder and 
wearier every time he measured the dreary length of the 
platform — the London train came up, and Arnold took his 
seat. 

Fatigue, and the comparative warmth of the carriage 
after the bitter air of the platform, made him drowsy, and 
in a little while he fell asleep. Now this was a fatal pro- 
ceeding; he should have kept awake at all cost. While 
he slept he dreamed, and the subject of his dream was his 
mission. 

What, then, was this mission of Arnold? While he 
sleeps and dreams of it, let me unfold it to the reader. 

It has been told how Mr. Rupert Trimble, the sole sur- 
viving partner in the old established firm of Trimble and 
Trimble, had just offered Arnold the post of manager in 
his office. This would give him a firm position and an in- 
dependent salary. And these he was willing to sacrifice 
for Marian's sake. 

Marian must go abroad. Arnold felt that he alone could 
enable her to do so. She must know nothing of his scheme., 
for she had never given him the right to act in her behalf., 
least of all to take such action as must result in material 
loss to himself. What he meant to do he must do on his 
own responsibility. 

To the end that Marian might go abroad, Arnold must 
raise without delay a considerable sum of money. He 
could not raise it except upon the security of his own 
services. Mr. Trimble, his master, was therefore the only 
man from whom he could procure it. He was going to 
appeal to Trimble to accept his services by way of mortgage 
for what seemed to him a most tremendous debt. His 
plan, so far as it had yet shaped itself, was to ask his em- 
ployer to give him the nominal post of manager in his 
office, to allow him to discharge the larger and far more 
responsible duties of that post at the pay of a junior clerk, 
on consideration of receiving from Mr. Trimble the heavy 
loan that he required. He could repay this loan only by 
sacrificing for a considerable period nearly three fourths of 


*TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 41 

she higher salary he had been promised. To borrow in 
such circumstances — for he would be bound in honor not 
to reveal the purpose for which the loan was needed — would 
be a loss of caste as well as of money. Moreover, would 
the lawyer consent to be lender on terms like these? 

Arnold dreamed out his dream, and awoke with a dull 
feeling of discomfiture, for his vision of the private inter- 
view with his chief had ended abruptly with that gentle- 
man^ rejection of his proposal. He should have kept 
awake at all cost. He had gone to sleep doubting; he 
awoke despairing. It had seemed a Quixotic errand before; 
it seemed a fool's errand now. 

The train stood still for a moment on a siding outside a 
small wayside station, the moon gleaming coldly over the 
fields, the earth as quiet as the sky. Arnold was half 
tempted to let himself out and wait at the little station for 
a returning train. But that would be treason to his devo- 
tion, and just then the train moved on again, and Arnold 
was glad of it, and resolved to dare his hazardous experi- 
ment. 

He fell again to examining the pros and the cons of his 
scheme; the pros were few, the cons were many. 

As to the pros, Mr. Trimble had always shown him 
marked kindness, and was an old friend of his uncle, the 
vicar; and had known, and once, he believed, rendered 
some slight service to Arnold's mother in days which were 
beyond Arnold's recollection. He could think of nothing 
else that might weigh in his favor. 

As to the cons, they were innumerable. To begin with, 
the character of his proposal was utterly unbusiness-like, 
and it was to be made to a man who was, above all else, a 
matter-of-fact and parchment-like lawyer. Then there was 
the lack of any but a commercial relation between them; 
there was Arnold's freshness in the profession, the fact of 
his being just qualified to* pass his examination for admis- 
sion, the lack of proper security, and — but the opposing 
arguments crowded so thick upon his mind that he had not 
breath to answer them, and gave up the attempt. 

Despair took an almost visible shape before him, and 
was his ghostly companion for the remainder of the 
journey. 

London was reached in a snow-storm at three in the 
morning, and as Arnold's lodgings were four miles distant 


42 


*TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 

from the terminus, he went to the hotel adjoining for a 
few hours’ sleep, before presenting himself in the sanctum 
of Mr. Rupert Trimble. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MASTER AND CLERK. 

Mr. Rupert Trimble had his matutinal mood, which 
was a slightly acid one. 

In person he was a largeish and heavy man, burdened 
like M. de Rohan “ with a certain degree of corpulency.” 
An habitual droop of the eyelids gave a rather somnolent 
expression to his countenance. 

His professional day began punctually at ten o’clock, at 
which hour he got down from the brougham that had carried 
him from Belsize Park, passed through the outer chamber 
of his office in Bedford Row, acknowledging with a brief 
“ Morning!” the salutation of his clerks, and proceeded to 
his own room. 

His table, whereon his letters were always arranged in a 
pile, faced the door. An observant visitor would have no- 
ticed that in place of the customary gong there was a small 
silver hand-bell within easy reach of the solicitor’s right 
hand, and that instead of the modern inkstand with its 
appendages, Mr. Trimble employed quills and the sand- 
box of our forefathers. A high shelf running round three 
sides of the room was occupied by deed-boxes, white-let- 
tered, and variously labeled “ Green vs. White,” “ Exors. 
of Simpson,” and so on — containing the family skeletons 
of many families, some of them long since extinct; the 
surviving troubles of many generations; ghosts from the 
defunct Court of Chancery; and much that, had it been in 
any one else’s keeping, Mr. Trimble might fairly have de- 
scribed as rubbish. Here Mr. Trimble sat, amid sur- 
roundings studiously and decorously dull, from ten o’clock 
in the morning until five o’clock in "the evening. 

On this particular morning, having glanced through the 
letters on his table, he rang his bell, and the junior clerk 
presented himself. 

“ Is there no answer to that telegram?” 

. “No, sir.” 


■TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


43 


Mr. Trimble opened and read his letters, a process which 
occupied him about ten minutes, then rang his bell again. 

“ Quite sure there's no answer to that telegram?" 

“ No answer, sir; I've asked Mr. Jones." 

“ Tell Mr. J ones I want to see him. " 

But Mr. Jones who had an exceedingly fine ear when his 
employer called, was already at the door. He was Ar- 
nold's senior by about ten years; a florid and high-colored 
young man, by no means bad looking, with sandy hair 
parted in the middle, and a reddish mustache. 

Mr. Jones had been in the service of Trimble & Trimble 
five years longer than Arnold, yet he had shown no resent- 
ment when Mr. Trimble announced his intention to give 
Arnold the chief position in the office. 

“ Lee's a good fellow, and the luck's against me in 
everything," was Mr. Jones's comment, . beyond which he 
contented himself with a suggestion that Arnold should 
treat him to a week's luncheons when he returned from the 
country. But to the junior clerk who received more of Mr. 
Jones's confidences than Arnold, he expressed an opinion 
in private that “ Trimble had played him rather a shabby 
trick." 

“ That telegram to Lee, was it rightly addressed?" in- 
quired Mr. Trimble of his second clerk. 

“ Oh, yes, sir; I addressed it myself. But it's a very 
out-of-the-way place, I believe; Lee may not have had the 
telegram until late in the evening, and — why, here's Lee 
himself, sir!" 

Arnold had roused himself a little before nine. He had 
slept four hours, barely long enough to refresh his body, 
and by no means long enough to strengthen his heart, after 
the desperate forebodings of the night before. He took his 
bath and felt better, his breakfast, and felt better still; 
then, while the braver mood was on him, he went straight 
to the office in Bedford Row. 

As his arrival there was entirely unlooked for, he was re- 
ceived with a surprise little less than dramatic. 

But Mr. Trimble, who disliked nothing so much as the 
unexpected, broke out petulantly: 

“ What's that you say, Jones? — Lee? Where is he? What 
has he come up for? Bless me, it is Lee." 

For Arnold had proceeded at once to his principal's 
room, and stood holding the door in his hand. 


44 


TWIXT LOVE AHD DUTY. 


Mr. Jones hovered behind him, curious and expectant; 
but Mr. Trimble signaled Arnold with a little impatient 
movement of his quill, and, as he entered the room, he 
took good care to close the door after him. 

“You upset me! you quite upset me!” explained Mr. 
Trimble, fidgeting in liis chair. “ What have you come up 
for? I expected to hear from you, of course; -but a tele- 
gram would have done — or a letter, for that matter. It's 
not so pressing. ” 

“Yes, sir,” began Arnold, “but — ” 

“ Well, well, say no more about it,” interrupted the so- 
licitor, who, in fact, was very glad to see him. “I didiTt 
want to break into your holiday, but after all Tm not sorry 
to see you. I've been a little out of sorts myself the last 
day or two, and the office is going at sixes and sevens. Let 
me see, what was it I telegraphed to you about?” 

“ Admiral Graeme's bill of costs, sir.” 

“Ah, yes, to be sure. You know the admiral, good 
client, but tiresome man. He's been writing two letters a 
day about that bill of costs; wants to know how I can ex- 
pect to be paid if I don't send it to him. One would think 
I'd been dunning the man. You'd better see to it at once. 
And there are other matters, too. Beally, I'm not sorry 
you've come!” 

“ Thank you, sir; but the truth is I took advantage of 
your telegram to come and see you on some private business’ 
— some urgent business, sir.” 

“ What is it? what is it? Nothing wrong at home? By 
the way, how is your uncle, Lee?” 

“ He is well, sir, thank you, and was speaking of you a 
night or two ago. He is meaning to write and thank you 
for your kindness to me. It is a matter of my own that I 
have come to you about.” 

“ Want to get married, Lee?” 

“ No, sir; I don't see my way to that at present. I am 
going to be so bold, Mr. Trimble, as to ask your assistance. 
I am in sore trouble — I — " 

Arnold broke off. His heart failed him. The proposal 
he was going to make rose up suddenly in his mind and, 
confronted him with an altogether monstrous shape. 

Mr. Trimble said nothing, but his face took a serious cast 
Still Arnold hesitated. 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


45 


“ Well,” said the solicitor at length, but without looking 
up, what is your trouble?” 

“To be brief, sir,” answered Arnold, with a visible effort, 
“ it is this: Since I left you on Monday, very gratefully 
accepting your offer of the management of your business, a 
matter has arisen which obliges me to raise without delay a 
very considerable sum of money — not less than two hun- 
dred and fifty pounds. It is to raise this that I have come 
to beg your help. ” 

A cloud began to darken the heavy features of Mr. 
Trimble, and his lawyer’s mind proceeded at once to take 
a more or less criminal view of the situation. 

“ Two hundred and fifty pounds! Why, what's this for? 
What have you been doing, Lee?” 

“ It is no fault of my own, sir, that obliges me to raise 
the money,” replied Arnold, in a grave but quiet tone. 

“ Of course not; of course not.” This in a not very 
friendly tone; but Mr. Trimble recollected that he had not 
proposed to appoint this young man his manager until he 
had proved his virtue, and went on, as if anxious to make 
some amend. “ At any rate I have never known you for a 
foolish fellow since you've been with me, or an untrust- 
worthy either. But this makes it the more extraordinary 
that you should ask me for two hundred and fifty pounds. 
Why, it's two years' salary at the rate I've been paying you. 
What is it for, I say?” 

“ Sir, I must throw myself on your generosity, and beg 
you to assist me to the money without asking why I 
need it. It is a part of my difficulty that I am not able to 
offer you an explanation.” 

“ This is absurd!” said Mr. Trimble, testily. 

“ It is unbusiness-like, at any rate, I am afraid," an- 
swered Arnold, meekly. 

“ It is worse than that. I say to you it is much worse 
than that. I am not a money-lender, Lee. If I were I 
should say simply, ‘ What is your security?' But you are 
my clerk; your uncle is my friend. If you come to borrow 
money of me I have a right to ask the use to which you 
would put it. You say, ‘l can not tell you.' What answer 
should a man in my position make to that?” 

“ I plead my past, sir. Have you ever found me any- 
thing hut truthful? I ask you to believe me when I say 
that" I am in trouble through no fault of my own.” 


46 


'twiyt love and duty. 


“ X have found you both steady and honest, Lee. But the 
unforeseen will happen, you know, and a steady and an 
honest fellow may get himself into a scrape. Come, now, 
confess that you are in some scrape. Tell me what it is, and 
you may find me no usurer. " 

“It is no scrape, sir, but more than that I can not say. 
My trouble is another's more than mine, and it is for that 
other's sake that my lips are sealed." 

“ This is a sort of language I am not interested in," saM 
Mr. Trimble, dryly, “and it does not seem to me to 
strengthen your case. I have one more question to put to 
you. Does your uncle know of this business?" 

“ I have said nothing to any one, sir." 

“ From which I may conclude that you have good rea- 
sons for keeping it to yourself. Well, Lee, I am sorry for 
this, I am very sorry, but let's waste no words over that. 
You ask me for a large loan, and refuse to say why you 
want it. Considering the relation between us, that would 
be a sufficient ground for my declining to advance the 
money. But I don't wish to see a good clerk spoiled, or, 
perhaps, ruined, for lack of a helping hand from his em- 
ployer. I am willing to consider the matter further, but as 
you choose to take your own standing with me I'll take my 
own standing with you. How do you propose to — " 

At this juncture the door opened and the genial coun- 
tenance of Mr. Jones appeared behind it. 

“Did you ring, sir?" 

“Ring? no! You know the sound of a bell, Mr. Jones, 
don't you?" 

Mr. Jones apologized and retired. An eager and a curi- 
ous man, Mr. Jones. 

“I was going to say," continued Mr. Trimble, “how do 
you propose to repay me, supposing I should advance you 
this sum, or a part of it?" 

“I have thought of that, sir," replied Arnold. “I can 
raise this sum, if at all, only on the security of my own 
services. It is for that reason I have ventured to ask you 
to be the lender. I propose to mortgage my services to you 
for a term of two years. You have shown your confidence in 
me by offering to appoint me your manager, with a salary 
of two hundred pounds for the first year. Let me be your 
manager, and if you will lend me the sum I ask I will re- 
turn you one hundred and fifty pounds of my salary at the 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


47 


end of the year. The remaining one hundred pounds I 
will pay in the following year. " 

“ What do you mean/' asked his master, slowly, “when 
you say that you will return me one hundred and fifty 
pounds of your salary at the end of the first year? Do you 
mean that you will give me a lump sum of one hundred 
and fifty pounds in December next?" 

“ No, sir," answered Arnold. “I will make your risk 
as small as possible. The payment of the loan shall com- 
mence at once. I mean that you shall pay me fifty pounds 
instead of two hundred pounds during the coming year." 

“You propose, in other words, to manage my business on 
the salary of a junior clerk?" 

“ That is what I propose, sir?" 

“I decide to appoint you my manager, Lee," said Mr. 
Trimble, with a pause between every other word, “ under 
the impression that you were not only a trustworthy fel- 
low, but that you had intelligence beyond your years. It 
seems to me, however, that you are little better than a 
fool. A madder proposal than this I never listened too." 

f< It may very well seem mad to you, sir. I do not ob- 
ject to the term, but it seems to me that at the worst I 
am proposing only to sacrifice a certain amount of salary 
for a couple of years. Two years of hard living should be 
no great trial to a man who has had to count his shillings 
all his life; and with the object I have in view the sacrifice 
looks small enough to me." 

“ The sacrifice may be a great one or a small one to you; 
that is your affair, and not mine. But I have an interest 
of my own in this matter. I have proposed to increase 
your salary in making you a manager, and shall expect 
you to let that be seen. You can't live like my manager, or 
look like my manager, on fifty pounds a year. " 

“ I shall not be quite reduced to that amount, sir — not 
during the coming year, at any rate. " 

“You have no fortune; that I know; and your hands 
will be fuller of work here than they have been. You'll 
have very little time for supplementing your fifty pounds 
elsewhere. No, Lee, you're proposing a foolish thing, 
which it would not be right in me to accept. I think 
of my own business, but I can give a thought to your in- 
terests too; and I have seen enough of life to know that 
what you are asking of me is neither more nor less than 


48 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


that I should help you ruin your own prospects. I can’t 
do that, and I won’t. Your proposal is impracticable and 
worse than impracticable. I will have nothing to say to it. 
If you must have your two hundred and fifty pounds, go to 
a money-lender.” 

The door was opened again with a sudden impulsive 
movement, and once more the smiling features of Mr. 
Jones illumined the sanctum. 

“ I think you rang that time, sir?” said the indefatiga- 
ble clerk. 

“ No, I did not ring that time. Can’t you see that I 
am engaged, Mr. Jones? Don’t let me be disturbed again.” 
Mr. Jones murmured his apology and withdrew. 

Arnold stood by Mr. Trimble’s table, silent and down- 
cast. 

“ Very well, sir,” he said respectfully. “ If you can not 
assist me I will not trouble you further.” 

W as it a look in the eyes, those dark trustful eyes, with 
their momentary pleading? Was it a touch in the voice, 
or a mere unconscious gesture of the hand? What shadowy 
something was it that awoke in the secret chambers of the 
lawyer’s heart a buried memory of Arnold’s mother? 

“ Make a clean breast of it, Lee,” he said, in not un- 
kindly accents. “Tell me this trouble of yours. Never 
fear to trust an old man. I have seen forty years more of 
life than you have.” 

“ I do not fear to trust you, sir, but — I can not tell more 
than I have told. ” 

Yes, it was there. The solicitor knew not what it was 
that moved him, save that by some spiritual process there 
had been fetched up in his mind the gentle image of this 
lad’s mother, whom he had known when Arnold was a 
child; who had once, on some errand of mercy, been a 
suppliant to him in this very room, and had pleaded not in 
vain. 

The man was capable, under strong emotional influence, 
of a warmth and generosity of action such as no average' 
motive could provoke him to. A wave of feeling swept 
him now, and carried him beyond himself. It was an im- 
pulse of sheer sentiment; but is not sentiment the source 
and motor of most things that are done amongst us? 

An instant’s hesitation; then he struck the desk with his 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


49 


land, and with a half-angry movement thrust himself back 
in his chair. 

“ Fetch me my check-book,” he said, pointing to the safe. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SCHEME ADVANCES. 

Mr. Trimble hurriedly wrote and signed a check for 
two hundred and fifty pounds, and handed it to Arnold, 
who received the slip of paper with the strangest feelings. 

But he was not allowed to speak, for, as he was about to 
open his lips, Mr. Trimble said: 

“ There, that will do. If you are going to thank me, 
you may as well return the check; for I am doing a foolish 
thing, and if you give me a minute for reflection I will 
most likely undo it. But iPs no gift, you know. I lend 
you the money on the terms you propose. Now get back 
home and finish your holiday. Tell J ones about that bill 
of costs, and then away with you. ” 

“But, sir,” began Arnold, in a voice not quite steady, 
■,md with worlds of gratitude in those fine eyes of his, “I 
can not go till you have let me say — ” 

Mr. Trimble laid a vehement hand on his bell, and the 
ever-ready Jones was present in an instant. 

Arnold saw that thanks were not to be permitted, so 
he simply bowed and withdrew. Ten minutes later he was 
out of the office, his cheeks red with victory, and his check 
in his pocket. 

He was in no mood for questioning the future. The 
present was enough. He had triumphed so far; never 
mind the rest. Even at such a moment as this a more 
phlegmatic man might have stayed to think that the tri- 
umph had been dearly bought; not so Arnold. 

He was wildly elated that his scheme had so well suc- 
ceeded; how should he pause to ask himself on what foot- 
ing he would return to the office he had just quitted? 

The first-fruits of his enterprise he was sure of — had got 
them in his pocket — let the after-fruit be what it might. 

Next, as to getting home. To-day or to-morrow? He 
had left sad hearts at home; they must be lightened as 
speedily as possible, and Arnold knew that he was the only 


50 


WIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


one who could lighten them. It was a question merely of 
the railway. 

He looked at his watch; it wanted five minutes to eleven. 
Excellent! for he remembered a train leaving town a few 
minutes after twelve, by which he might reach the station 
at the other end about seven in the evening. It would he 
necessary to walk home from there, hut he could manage 
that with two hundred and fifty pounds in Bank of Eng- 
land notes for company. The midday train then, by all 
means, and there was just time to execute the vicar’s com- 
missions besides. 

That journey home was a delightful one. 

Marian was to go abroad ; it was Arnold who would send 
her. She was to get back the health she had been robbed 
of, Arnold being the physician-in-chief. Then there was 
the sweetness of doing it all in secret. 

Over this Arnold thought long, and resolved that the 
lieutenant was the only other person who could, in justice 
to Marian, he admitted to the plot. To admit him was 
necessary, for to him the money must be given; hut no one 
else, not even his uncle, could fairly be told what Arnold 
had done. 

The little wayside station was reached at last, a good 
half hour behind time. There was no conveyance there. 
Job met the earlier train, for by the seven o’clock there 
was not a passenger once in six months who was worth the 
taking up. 

But Arnold knew the path through the fields, a broad, 
well-beaten track, at least four miles shorter than the road. 

Long months after, walking alone by night through the 
streets of London, he recalled the pleasure of that lonely 
tramp through the wild, wintery fields and by the edges of 
wind-swept moors, with the deep, dark sky above, and the 
tender fretwork of the stars. There was such accord 
above and below, with all sounds hushed, except for the oc- 
casional beating of the wind amongst the trees, and the 
faint far-off chorus of the waves. 

The riotous gladness of heart with which he had started 
on his journey had given way to a feeling of sober happi- 
ness; but there was a little leaping of the pulse now and 
then, when he put his hand up to the pocket-book that 
held the notes into which he had converted the check, and 
thought of the light that would break over the lieutenant’s 


'TWIXT LOVE A HD DUTY. 61 

features when he showed them, and told him they were for 
Marian's* use. 

And new feelings began to steal into his heart about 
Marian. Along with love was joined now the sense that 
he had become her protector — better than that, he hoped 
to be her deliverer. 

It was a little after nine o'clock when Arnold reached 
the Vicarage. There were curious sounds proceeding from 
the house, which made him pause for a moment in some 
alarm, but he was reassured on going nearer to find that 
they proceeded from the vicar and his harmonium. The 
old man was practicing a Christmas anthem. Seated at 
the harmonium, his coat-tails sweeping the ground, his big 
body swaying slowly to and fro, he thundered forth in mag- 
nificent and most inappropriate style a sweetly simple tune 
of Christmas. 

“Hullo, my Ulysses!" he exclaimed, when Arnold 
showed himself in the room. “ Are ye back already? Ah, 
trains and the telegraph were made for fellows like you! 
Is Trimble's business settled, eh?" 

'“ Yes, and yours too, uncle — Trimble's in half an hour, 
and yours in five minutes." 

“ Good! If I'd had those copper caps, though, there'd 
ha' been a hare in the pot for you now. Have ye supped?" 

“No; I'm famished!" 

“Hum! Keturah's abed, and Ann oif to the village 
with broth for one of them. But take up the lamp, and 
we'll look into the larder; I'm hungry myself. I don't 
know, but I'd rather go to London and back in four-and- 
twenty hours than spend two holloaing of anthems. Steady 
with the lamp!" 

“ Is Marian any better, uncle?" 

“ She's as gay as the morning, but droops at times. 
Poor Lem is fathoms deep in the Slough of Despond. 
You see, it's a question of two hundred pounds at the very 
least, and how it's to be raised I don't know. Hang the 
boy! he looks quite cheerful!" 

“ The money must certainly be raised, uncle. I'm 
afraid two hundred pounds wouldn't be enough. But let 
us look for some supper." 

Arnold slept that night like Adam in Paradise. The 
next morning, while dressing, a thought occurred to him 
in the form of a question. Would the lieutenant, any 


52 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


more than Marian, be willing to accept his help if he knew 
the terms on which the check had been procured? 

It seemed doubtful. Arnold, therefore, must not tell 
too much of the interview with Mr. Trimble. The major 
part of the secret must be his own after all. And, casting 
it over in his mind, he could not but see that he was yet 
far from the point at which he might venture to congratu- 
late himself on the satisfactory issue of his scheme. The 
money he had got. So far so good. But how many 
practical difficulties remained to be dealt with! 

Success, in fact, as Master Arnold had to assure himself, 
is a relative term. 

He had brought himself into a delicate, if not indeed a 
quite abnormal position. 

His chance of complete success lay in the utter helpless- 
ness of the lieutenant. The verdict oj: the doctors was 
decisive; Arnold knew that he was the only person who 
could secure its being put into effect. Here accordingly 
lay his opportunity and his hope. 

“ Well, boy,” said the vicar, when Arnold came down to 
breakfast, “ you look something heartier than you did the 
day before yesterday. You might put a little comfort into 
Lem, with a face like that. Lem will be over here by and 
by, and, between you and me, I doiTt feel equal to him this 
morning. We had such a talking bout yesterday over this 
business of poor Marian's that I'm as dry as our well ! Take 
him in hand, you, and say something comfortable. I gave 
it to him all on the other side.'' 

“ Well, uncle, if you want to be out’ of the way for 
awhile, you had better make yourself scarce at once, for I 
see the lieutenant coming up the road.'' 

“ Very well, I'll scuttle. If you succeed in putting some 
cheer into him, bring him out to me. I fear me I am 
a very selfish man, but I have to preach glad tidings the 
day after to-morrow, and poor Lem's face is a text for Good 
Friday.'' 

Now the real truth of the vicar's unwillingness to meet 
his friend was that neither of them had mental resources 
sufficient for a crisis like the present, and they had com- 
pletely exhausted one another on the previous day. Parson 
Paul would have been a superb figure at the head of an 
army of crusaders, and quite in his element in leading a 
forlorn hope; but his mental armory was not such as a 


WIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


53 

man might boast of. Rather was he of the caliber of that 
doughty mediaeval priest who, because of his vows, never 
fought with any weapon sharper than a mace. 

Consequently, in discussing with the lieutenant the pos- 
sibility of carrying out the doctor's commands, he had 
found himself at the end of his tether when he had de- 
clared, briefly and peremptorily, that as Marian had been 
ordered abroad, abroad she must immediately go. 

“ Yes, Paul, yes," had pleaded the lieutenant in his mild, 
irresolute way; “but it is not sufficient to say that. You 
see, Paul, it is as though you told a man on a treeless 
island in mid-ocean that his only hope of safety lay in 
making for himself a boat. " 

“ The advice would be none the less good were I able to 
assist him to his boat or not," responded the vicar. “I 
tell you that, somehow or other, the means must be found, 
Lem. " 

“It is true; it is very true, Paul; else the poor girl will 
die. But how to find these means, Paul?" 

And then the vicar stormed, and said that Lem was un- 
reasonable, inasmuch as, though he had plainly shown him 
what course to take, there was no getting him to take it. 

This had not tended to lighten the lieutenant's distress, 
and he looked the picture of desolation as he approched the 
Vicarage at breakfast-time that morning. He appeared, in 
truth, so completely vanquished that Arnold felt there could 
be no very serious difficulty in prevailing on him to accept 
the help he had to offer. He saw his way more clearly and 
shaped his plan accordingly. 

He went to meet the lieutenant at the door. 

“ So soon back, Arnold? When I was your age it would 
have occupied a week at least to go and come from London. 
But I am glad you are returned; I have hardly spoken 
with you since this sore trouble has come upon me. " 

“ Come in, and let us talk, lieutenant. My uncle has 
just gone out. How do you find Marian to-day?" 

“ I thank God, she seems better. But she is never the 
same for many hours together: very bright now, and then 
depressed and drooping; and the trouble with the chest 
continues. " 

“ That trouble with the chest is what I do not like," said 
Arnold. 

“You are right, Arnold; it is the gravest symptom. 


54 


TWIXT LOYE A HD DUTT. 


That is what the doctor at Cambridge said; and our good 
doctor here says the same. She has a troublesome cough 
at times. ” 

“ Then her being brighter in spirits at one time than at 
another is, I fear, not to be trusted,” said Arnold, trying 
to lead steadily up to his point. “ The trouble with the 
chest must be the main thing. Can that be cured while 
she stays here?” 

“They say that it is not possible,” answered the lieu- 
tenant, shaking his head sadly. 

“In that case, lieutenant, have you thought of any 
means by which she might be sent abroad?” 

“I can see no way by which it may be done. Oh, 
Arnold, is it not terrible to know that there is but one 
course open, and that course impossible? All my care for 
her to end in this! What can I do, Arnold? You know 
how it stands with me: I am quite crippled; I have not 
twenty pounds of ready money.” 

“ Is there no friend who could help?” 

“No; there is none: I am quite solitary. One does not 
make new friends here, and you know how seldom I have 
been from home these many years. Marian and her little 
sister have been my care; I have lived for them. Those 
who knew me once must almost have forgotten my name. ” 

“ Suppose that I could be of some help, lieutenant?” 

“Ay, indeed, Arnold, ay: I know that no one would 
help us more quickly or more gladly, if it might be. ” 

The lieutenant said this kindly, but as one might give 
assent to some general proposition of rather remote import. 

“ Yes, but, lieutenant, suppose that I am indeed able?” 
said Arnold again. 

“Eh? What do you mean, Arnold?” answered the 
lieutenant, as if Arnold's words had suddenly acquired some 
import for him. 

“ I mean this, lieutenant, that if you are willing, for 
Marian's sake, to accept help from me, I am able to render 
it.” 

“Why, my dear Arnold,” replied the lieutenant, “if 
you are indeed able to render us some little help, you know 
that it will be accepted willingly and gladly. But I think 
you do not know how great my needs are. Paul and my- 
self talked this out yesterday, and decided that if Marian 
were to go away — the Cambridge doctor advised Madeira-— 


'TWIXT 10 VE AXD DUTY. 55 

two hundred pounds, at least, would be wanted. Two 
hundred pounds, Arnold! A fortune to us.” 

“ Yes, a large sum, no doubt, lieutenant; but I can give 
you that, and fifty pounds more — immediately .” 

<f You, Arnold? You! two hundred and fifty pounds!” 
and the lieutenant fixed his mild gray eyes on him, wide 
open and filled with astonishment. 

For answer Arnold took a sheaf of notes from his pocket- 
book, unfolded them, and spread them before the lieu- 
tenant. 

The lieutenant stared at the paper in blank amazement, 
put out his hand and touched it, then pushed it hurriedly 
from him, and said, trembling: 

“ No; I can not; I will not. It is not right. Take hack 
your money, Arnold.” 

“ For Marian's sake,” said Arnold, and pushed the notes 
, toward him again. 

“ I say I will not touch them,” replied the old man, but 
his tone faltered, and he looked wistfully, almost hungrily, 
at the notes. 

“For Marian's sake,” Arnold said again. “You can 
not refuse it for her sake, lieutenant.” 

“God help me! you are tempting me. But I will not 
take it, for it is not right. How is it possible that you can 
offer me this great sum?” 

“You do not think that I have come by it dishonestly, 
lieutenant?” 

“ No, no; I know you too well. That was not niy 
thought. But you must have made some great sacrifice. 
You must — •" 

“ What sacrifice would be too great to me if I might save 
Marian's life?” replied Arnold. 

“ Ay, ay; that is very noble of you, Arnold. But you 
must have pledged yourself for this; and if so you may 
come to repent it — very grievously, perhaps. It is your 
good heart has prompted you to this; hut how can 1 let you 
do rashly, on an unconsidered impulse, what may bring 
harm on you hereafter? You are young, and can not afford 
to jeopardize your future. I pray you take back your 
money.” 

“Listen to me, lieutenant. I am richer than I was, 
much richer. You do not know what my position is now. 

It is six months since you and I talked over my affairs; 


56 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


since then Mr. Trimble has made me his manager. How 
do you know what money I may have saved? Believe me, 
when I say that I am well able to put this money in your 
hands for Marianas use. Now, let us see how the matter 
stands with you. You have told me how powerless you 
are: and Marianas life is at stake. Surely these two grounds 
are more than sufficient. I say you must take this money. ” 

“ But your future, Arnold, your future. You must not 
put that in jeopardy.” 

“ No, dear lieutenant, and I do not intend to. Come, 
let us make an end. It will not be kind either to Marian 
or to me if you hesitate longer.” 

Now the poor lieutenant was honestly and most sorely 
perplexed. When he thought of Marian he longed to close 
his fingers on the notes. When he thought of Arnold he 
was tormented by fears that the young man was straiten- 
ing if not crippling himself to do this great act of gen- 
erosity. So for his conscience* sake he made one more 
effort to dissuade him. 

“ I can not receive this as a gift, Arnold,** he said, “ and 
if I take it as a loan, how can I hope to repay you?** 

But Arnold was ready with his anwer. 

“ This is quite another argument, lieutenant,” said he. 
“ And this we can discuss another day.** 

“ Well, then,** replied the lieutenant, who really saw no 
course but to yield, “ if Marian will consent, I will consent 
too. *’ 

“What are you saying, sir?” cried Arnold in alarm. 
“Marian! But you must not tell her of this. No, no; I 
this must be our secret— yours and mine, lieutenant. Of 
course Marian would not consent; how could she? With 
you it is quite different; but think what a position hers 
would be if she knew of this. I have not breathed a sylla- 
ble to any one but you. My uncle, even, does not know a 
word of it; nor must he. In justice to Marian it must be 
kept from her, and from every one else.** 

The lieutenant saw and acknowledged the force of this. 

“ Then no more remains but for you to take and put up 
these notes. Come, I have won you over, have I not? You 
will not let scruples of any sort override the question 
whether Marian*s life is to be saved?” 

Here at length the old lieutenant fairly broke down and 
cried. 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


57 


w “You have overcome me, Arnold,” he said. “I can 
ie > not resist any longer. I pray God I may be doing you 
iir no wrong. I will take your money for my dear child’s 
er sake. ” 

M Then the lieutenant pledged his faith to Arnold to keep 
Is the matter a secret between them, and took the roll of 
* notes from Arnold’s hands and laid it away in his inner 
i pocket. 

“ And now,” said Arnold, “ I shall not stay here much 
V longer, for it is better I should be out of the way. In a 
11 day or two I shall return to town, hut we shall be able to 
talk much before I go. Meanwhile, you must see Marian 
f and tell her that you have decided she must go away as the 
8 doctors have ordered.” 

3 “It will be very difficult,” said the lieutenant. 

“We will all help you,” said Arnold. 

“ But your uncle, what will he say? He knows how im- 
! possible it is for me to find the money.” 

It was a trait of the lieutenant’s- character, which 
amounted almost to weakness, that he always saw the diffi- 
culties of a scheme more readily than its possibilities. 

“My uncle? Oh, we must mystify him,” replied Arnold, 
to whom, now that he had conquered the lieutenant, and 
compelled him to secrecy, all other obstacles seemed trivial. 

Then, seeing the lieutenant full of a tremulous anxiety to 
get home and talk to Marian, he proposed to him to re- 
turn to the Vineyard at once; and the lieutenant, without 
waiting to see the vicar, set oft'. 

“ Say that I shall come over immediately,” called out 
Arnold, as the lieutenant went through the gate, and 
added, “but I shall wait, you know, until I think that you 
have brought her round.” 

Then, with a lighter heart than he had known for full 
three days, he went in search of his uncle, to acquaint him 
that he had succeeded in raising the lieutenant’s spirits. 

The lieutenant went home much faster than he had come, 
but when he had turned the bend of the road, and knew 
that he was unobserved, he stood still a moment and lifted 
his hat, and some silent word or two of prayerful gratitude 
broke from his heart and mounted skyward. 

Then he went on, and braced himself for an interview 
with Marian. 

Now, Marian, knowing how heavily her uncle had taxed 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


r>s 

himself for some years past to provide for her own and her 
sisters education, had not ceased to insist that the doctors 
must be disregarded, and that she could not and would not 
go abroad. 

They had talked of this and of nothing else during the 
past two days. In the morning, while she was stronger 
and her mind unexhausted, the lieutenant was quite unable 
to prevail with her, for she had much energy of will; and 
besides that, she had been accustomed to her own way with 
him. 

But later in the day, when her powers began to flag, she 
would let the lieutenant talk on, and indeed he knew that 
her physical weakness, which always vanquished her in the 
end, gave him his only chance. 

“ Has Arnold come back, uncle?” she asked, when the 
lieutenant presented himself. 

“ Yes, dear, yes. He returned last night; came by the 
midday train, and walked all the way from Threndon. He 
told me to say that he would be over to see you immediately. 
We have had some little talk together.” 

“ Well, Fm glad of that, Uncle Lemuel, because it seems 
to have done you good. Did my name occur in the con- 
versation? I seem to be the only topic just now. Has 
Arnold been telling you that the doctors are very foolish 
gentlemen?” 

“ No, indeed, dear; he is of my opinion, namely, that 
the doctors are quite right. ” 

“ And is no one of my opinion, uncle?” 

“ No one, dear.” 

“Well, that is very unkind, but it does not shake me in 
the least. I am twice as well as when we left Cambridge, 
and if I go on improving at this rate I shall be better than, 
ever in a fortnight. ” 

“ In a fortnight, my dear child, I hope that you will be 
many hundred miles from here.” 

The lieutenant said this with so firm an air that Marian 
gave him a look in which amusement was mingled with 
genuine surprise. Hitherto it had been, “ My dear, I fear 
that you must go. Somehow or other we shall find the 
means.” But “ many hundred miles in a fortnight!” — this 
was clinching matters with a will. 

“What a dreadfully cruel wish, Uncle Lemuel?” she 
said. 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


59 


“ Marian, my dear,” he replied, “ we must be in earnest 
— we must be very much in earnest. I do not like you to 
jest on a matter so serious.” 

“ No, dear uncle; the prospect of being many hundred 
miles from. Three Dykes in a fortnight sounds a very poor 
jest to me. Just as if I had not shown you over and over 
again, these last two days. Uncle Lemuel, that this is en- 
tirely out of the question.” 

“Far from that, Marian; it is absolutely necessary. 
Since I have talked with Arnold this morning, I am more 
strongly persuaded of it than ever. ” 

“ I wish Arnold had stayed in town, then,” she exclaimed. 

“ I think that every day you remain here is a danger to 
you, dear,” went on the lieutenant. “ Your cough is worse 
than when we left Cambridge.” 

“ Phoebe's cough is twenty times as bad as mine, uncle, 
i Why should not Phoebe seek change of air hundreds of 
miles from Three Dykes?” 

“Phoebe has a cough, and gets rid of it in a week, dear.” 

“ If you will give me a fortnight, uncle, I will get rid of 
: mine.” 

“No, no, dear niece, it can not be. You must let the 
matter be taken out of your hands. It is I who must de- 
cide for you. You must be removed as quickly as possi- 
ble.” 

“You are ruining yourself for me. Uncle Lemuel,” she . 
\ insisted, gently. 

“Nonsense, my dear, nonsense. Who has put such a 
foolish idea into your head? I have thought it all over this 
morning more closely than before, and I can see my way 
quite clearly.” 

“ All this is very sudden, uncle. It has happened since 
Arnold returned from London. I wonder whether Arnold 
has anything to do with it?” 

“ A great deal, dear. He has represented matters to me 
in a new light. You know I had hardly spoken with him 
until this morning.” 

“ I begin to think that Arnold is a very wonderful per- 
son,” said Marian. 

“ He has an excellent head; yes, and an excellent heart, 
answered her uncle, with his hand on the pocket that con- 
tained the notes. 


60 


’twixt love and duty. 


“ And Arnold has said that I am to go? Where is it I 
am to go. Uncle Lemuel?” 

“ The Cambridge doctor spoke of Madeira.” 

“ A very good place, I am sure. Uncle Lemuel.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say so, Marian; and to think that 
you have brought yourself to agree with us.” 

“But I have not, my dear uncle. I remain quite 
unshaken. You shall not send me to Madeira, for I will 
not go. ” 

The lieutenant rose with a pained look on his face, and 
made as if he would leave the room. Marian laid her 
hand on his, and restrained him. 

“ Uncle Lemuel, please do not be angry with me,” she 
said. “ It is of you that I think, and not of myself. I can 
not let you do this for me, because I know that you are not 
able. I know what sacrifices you have made and would 
make for me. But this one is not necessary — it is not, 
dear uncle, indeed. These doctors do not know. Let us 
wait for a little while, and we will talk of it again if I do 
not mend. Arnold has frightened you; you are both too 
anxious. ” 

“ Too anxious we can not be, my darling niece, for it may 
be that we know more than you do. But we will say no 
more to-day. You are tired, and must rest awhile, for 
Arnold will be here presently. ” 

But Arnold tarried. He felt a certain constraint about 
seeing her just now, so he waited, and did not go until the 
afternoon. 

He learned then that Marian had just retired to her own 
room. The doctor had been with her, and had found her 
in a condition of exhaustion, and had said that she must be 
quiet for the remainder of the day. 

She left a message for Arnold, asking him if he remem- 
bered that the next day was Christmas-eve, and expressing 
a hope that his uncle and he would come over in the even- 
ing that they might not miss their usual gathering. She 1 
would reserve herself for the evening, she said, and trusted 
to be quite able to receive her guests. It has been a cus- 
tom of the two families to meet on Christmas-eve, some- 
times at the Vicarage, sometimes at the Vineyard. 

Arnold saw the lieutenant, and learned what had taken 
place between him and Marian. 

“ Marian is a very good girl,” said the lieutenant, “ and 


’twixt love and duty. 


61 


t have had great difficulty in persuading her. Indeed, Ar- 
nold, I can not say that I have succeeded yet. She wants to be 
given a chance to recover at home, though I tried to make 
her know that she could never be well here. Some things 
that she said are heavy on my conscience. It troubled me 
not a little that she insisted on speaking of my sacrifice 
and the like — I, that am doing it with your money, 
Arnold. ” 

“ That is not at all the way to look at it, lieutenant. That 
part of the matter is settled between you and me, and at an 
end. The main thing now is to win Marian over as quickly 
as may be. I'll tell you what: write to the doctor at Cam- 
bridge, and get his support. Let him repeat by letter what 
he said to you at the college; and Doctor Grey must speak 
more strongly to Marian herself. Sit down at once, 
lieutenant; you have half an hour before post-time. Ask 
him to reply at once, and you will get his letter on Christ- 
mas-day.” 

So the lieutenant, in the earnestness and innocence of his 
heart, sat down and wrote an urgent letter to Dr. Wilson, 
who had shown a more than common interest in the case 
of this fair patient. 

“ Come over to the Vicarage in the evening,” said Arnold 
jo the lieutenant as he was leaving. “ Uncle Paul must 
[back us up too, though, as I said, we shall have to mystify 
him a little. ” 

Thus these two plotters worked at their plot, and the 
meshes were drawn more closely around the victim. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MARIAN'S ANSWER. 

On the next day Marian was not well enough to receive 
her friends. 

“ Suppose we wait until the day after to-morrow, dear?” 
iaid the lieutenant, who conjectured that he would then be 
in receipt of Dr. Wilson's reply. 

The lieutenant was beginning to feel a mild complai- 
sance — almost even a child-like pride — in his conspirator's 
part. The little gathering was postponed to the day after 
tlhristmas-day. 


62 


’twixt love and duty. 


These two days the lieutenant and Arnold had their 
heads together a good deal, and Parson Paul, who had 
neither gift nor relish for stratagem or plot, but was for 
carrying all matters by assault and battery, began to sniif 
and look contemptuous. But he was curious notwith- 
standing. 

‘‘What is it you’re twisting up between ye, you two 
there?” he asked; and went on: “ Lem has swelled a good 
two inches since you came back from town. Master Arnold, 
and struts like a Pharisee! What’s it all about?” 

“ You are humorous, Paul, you are humorous,” answered 
the lieutenant in his soft acquiescent way. “ The increase 
in my size is, I trust, a mere pleasant fancy of yours; and as 
for strutting — well, well! — if I have carried myself a little 
more bravely these last two days, it is, I suppose, because 
Arnold here has shown himself a skilled counselor in help- 
ing me with a plan whereby Marian may go abroad.” 

“ Arnold is a fine fellow. And my counsel — eh? Mine 
was the foolish counsel of Ahithophel?” 

“ No, no, Paul. You have a shrewd and mellow wisdom 
of your own — ” began his friend, but the vicar cut him 
short with one of his stentorian laughs. 

“Aaron’s beard! What a man is this Lemuel with his 
sarcasms. But what’s your plan, Lem?” 

“Well, well, now, ’tis not shaped yet, you know, Paul. 
But Arnold here has made it so clear that Marian must go, 
and that without delay, that I have resolved on sending her 
so soon as the matter can be well and properly arranged. 
You see, Paul, as Arnold says, it is a question of life or 
death, and no middle way at all; so that, at any and every 
cost, she must go.” 

“ Why, all this is what I have said myself — no more and 
no less,” observed the vicar. 

“ Yes, Paul, yes, you did very truly and stoutly say it, 
but I did not see then my course quite so clearly as — God 
be thanked — I see it now. But, Paul, I want you to say 
to Mirian all that you said to me; at least without 
telling her in so many words what her real danger is; I 
want you to speak strongly, and say that if the means can 
be provided — as they must be — it will not be right in her 
to put difficulties in the way.” 

“But the means, Lem! Where are they?” 

“Well, Paul,” replied the lieutenant^ a shade more de- 


*TW1XT LOVE ANI> DUTY. 


63 

cisively than was his wont, “ I have decided to make myself 
responsible. Even if some small sacrifice were necessary, 
is this a situation in which I should hesitate at that? No, 
no! but you need not say anything to Marian about sacri- 
fice. Yes, yes, it can be managed. Arnold has made it 
much clearer.” 

“Arnold, as I have already said, is a fine fellow,” an- 
swered the vicar. “Well, I shall talk to Marian, Lem. 
Come, come, we'll do it yet — as — hem! as I always said we 
would. ” 

“ Thank you, Paul, thank you; you are full of comfort. 
Yes, by God's will, it shall be done.” 

The vicar might have had his suspicions, but he said 
nothing. That Arnold could have unfolded the secret of 
this sudden and # surprising fertility of resource on the part 
of the lieutenant, his uncle well believed; but he was, of 
course, far from imagining the real nature or extent of 
Arnold's implication in the matter. He was mystified, in 
short; which, as we have seen, it was the desire and inten- 
tion of the plotters that he should be. 

The day after Christmas-day came a letter from Dr. 
Wilson, which was all that the lieutenant had wished. Dr. 
Wilson wrote at considerable length, and in a strain of 
quite emphatic kindliness. He repeated, with added stress, 
what he had told the lieutenant at Cambridge, as to the 
extreme and urgent gravity of Marian's case. The phthis- 
ical symptoms, he said, were not possible to be mistaken, 
and delay in procuring the necessary change of climate for 
the patient might be followed by the worst consequences. 
He had recommended Maderia, and on further thought was 
persuaded that no better place could be chosen. He 
gathered from Lieutenant Dean's letter that there was some 
slight difficulty in arranging the journey and other mat- 
ters, and took the liberty therefore of offering a suggestion. 
He had spoken on the subject with Mrs. Wilson, who had 
reminded him that a friend of theirs, an elderly widow 
lady, residing in London, who generally spent the early 
part of the year abroad, was intending to sail for Maderia 
in the second week of January. Mrs. Wilson felt sure that 
their friend, Mrs. Warren, would, if Lieutenant and Miss 
Dean desired it, very gladly accept Miss Dean's company 


64 


’TWINT LOYE AND DUTY. 


to Maderia. Would Lieutenant and Miss Dean like Mrs. 
Wilson to communicate with Mrs. Warren? 

The lieutenant showed the letter to Arnold, who said 
that nothing could be better. The substance of it he told 
to Marian, but that independent young lady continued to 
insist that there was no occasion for her uncle to beggar 
himself by sending her to Madeira, or anywhere else. 
Nevertheless the lieutenant saw, with quiet content, that 
her resolution began to be shaken. It could not well be 
otherwise. She lacked the sustained strength necessary to 
oppose the battery of argument and appeal with which 
the lieutenant, the vicar, and Arnold in turn assailed her. 

This was the situation on the afternoon of the day aftex 
Christmas-day. 

At five in the evening the vicar and Arnold set out for 
the Vineyard. Ann Hanoch and Keturah followed at a 
proper distance; for when the two families came togethei 
for a set festival, Marian entertained the gentlemen in the 
parlor, and Phoebe or Ann, as the case might be, made 
cheer for the domestics in the kitchen. Keturah carried 
a small parcel in one hand and a large parcel in the other. 
The small parcel contained Ann Hanoch’s cap, the large 
one the vicar’s music. 

“ Don?t get up, my dear,” said the vicar to Marian, when 
Phoebe had ushered the visitors with becoming ceremony 
into the parlor. “ What does it matter where the mistletoe 
hangs? By your leave. I’ll kiss you where you are.” 

“ I was not thinking of the mistletoe, Mr. Brunskill,’ 1 ' 
she said. 

“ No, my dear, but I was.” 

Arnold had said good-bye to his mistletoe privileges many 
a long day since; which was the worse for Arnold. 

“ Uncle Lemuel, will you ring for tea?” said Marian. 
“Mr. Brunskill, you have brought your music, I hope?” 

“Not I, indeed. No, I’ve given over singing. As for 
the anthems, John Finch shall try his hand at the next.” 

“ Phoebe,” said Arnold, “tell Keturah to give you my 
uncle’s music.” And the roll was brought and deposited 
on the piano ; and the laugh went against the vicar, whoso 
musical vanities were a standing joke between the twc 
families. 

After tea, the two schemers set Parson Paul to ply Mari- 


'twixt loye axd duty. 65 

an with fresh arguments. Fresh arguments the vicar had 
none, hut he endeavored to obey instructions. 

‘ ‘ I always said, my dear, that you would prove a good 
and sensible girl,” began the vicar, when Arnold and the 
lieutenant had withdrawn to another room to pretend to 
play draughts. 

“ I don't feel at all sure that your words have been veri- 
fied, Mr. Br unskill,” she laughed. 

“ To the letter,” answered the vicar. “ Here's the mat- 
ter now well settled. Place selected, chaperon found, and 
you consenting with smiles. What could be fitter? In a 
few months we shall have you back sound and well.” 

“ Not so fast, please, Mr. Brunskill. I have given no 
-consent yet, and a smiling one I shall never give. Now, 
Mr. Brunskill, really and truly— do you not think it would 
be exceedingly wicked of me to go away, and put Uncle 
Lemuel to such great expense?” 

“ Eh? Well, do you know, I shouldn't wonder if Lem 
were a richer man than we make him out to be. He may 
have a little mine somewhere. ” 

“ How can you say that, Mr. Brunskill? He is as 
poor as poor can be, and I have been helping to make 
him poorer. I think it would be mean of me to go to 
Madeira.” 

The vicar beat his brain for those new and cogent argu- 
ments he was to have employed; but they were not there. 
He had done his all when he had gone over again the 
little bit of ground he had already traversed a dozen 
times. 

“Well, my dear, let me hear what you have to say 
for your own case," he began, and thereby 'laid for himself 
a trap into which Marian would assuredly have drawn 
him, but for an interruption from one of the conspirators- 
in-chief. 

Catching the drift of the vicar's last sentence, Arnold, 
with a sign to the lieutenant, jumped up and returned 
quickly to the room where Marian and the parson were. 

“Were you asking for your music-case. Uncle Paul? It 
is on the piano. Marian, please ask him to sing; the lieu- 
tenant is bringing the draught-board in here.” 

The vicar was not sorry to be released; and so far as 
the scheme was concerned it was well that he had been, 

3 


66 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


for in another quarter of an hour Marian would have won 
him over to her side. 

Marian made a comical moue at Arnold; she joerceived 
that she was destined to lose the day. 

“ Give me the music, Arnold,” she said, “ and let me 
choose something for Mr. Brunskill. See, Mr. Bruns- 
kill, here is ‘The Woodpecker/ your especial favorite, and 
mine too. Sing us ‘ The Woodpecker Tapping/” 

A voice the vicar had, but his unsparing use of it in the . 
open air — as in cheering the hounds when he encountered 
the hunt, and hallooing about the garden — had somewhat 
spoiled it for the piano. A rousing ballad he could sing, 
but his friends humored his cherished fancy that his forte 
in music was the sentimental. 

He opened the piano with a show of great unwillingness, 
and the lieutenant fetched his chair from the opposite cor- 
ner beside him. 

Arnold took the seat his uncle had vacated by Marian's 
sofa. 

“This was a ruse of yours, sir,” she said softly; “your 
uncle never asked for his music-case, and you know it. 
Ten minutes more and I should have convinced him; 
then we two would have been a match for Uncle Lemuel 
and you.” 

“Was it not cleverly done?” asked Arnold, with twink- 
ling eyes. 

“ In your point of view, I suppose it was,” said Marian; 
“but very unfair in mine. You have fenced me in on 
every side, but I mean to be twice as obstinate now. ” 

Arnold became serious, and dropping his voice, he said: 
“You know to what purpose. all this is done.” 

“To make poor Uncle Lemuel poorer.” 

“ Ho, to make you rich — rich in the health you had six 
months ago.” 

“Well, if that is your object, you are going to work the 
wrong way; for all this talking and fretting about it is 
making me worse.” 

“But it rests with you alone, dear Marian, to end all 
this. ” 

“ I will not end it by giving in. Please, Arnold, be on 
my side,” she pleaded almost tearfully. ' “ Persuade Uncle 
Lemuel that I shall get better at home more quickly tha$ 
anywhere else.” 


TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


67 


ec I could not persuade him to that if I tried." 

“But try." 

“I can not, Marian, for it would be against my own con- 
victions. " 

“ TV hy is it that you are all so set upon having me away?" 
she asked, looking steadily at him. 

“ Because the doctors have insisted on it as absolutely 
necessary." 

“But if the doctors insist on what can not be done — 
what then, Arnold?" 

“Here is the answer to that, Marian — that it can be 
done.” 

This conversation was being carried on in an under-tone, 
out of respect for the feelings of the musician. But the 
vicar, in fact, cared nothing for the attentiveness of his 
audience; and his woodpecker continued vigorously to tap 
the hollow oak-tree. The lieutenatnt, sitting beside him, 
beat time gently with his finger on the arm of the chair, 
and whispered encouragingly between the verses: “Excel- 
lent! excellent! You are very tuneful to-night, Paul." But 
he glanced all the while out of the corners of his eyes at 
Marian and Arnold. When the vicar had finished the 
song, he began it again. 

“It is since you came back the second time that TJncle 
Lemuel has been so ardent about my going away," said 
Marian. 

“No, Marian, no; he has been ardent about it ever since 
you returned from Cambridge." 

“ Yes, but it is only within the last two days that he 
has said positively I am to go. How it that, Arnold?" 

“I suppose he was not so clear about the means then." 

“ And how is it he is so clear now?" 

“Well, you see, we have all been talking about it a great 
deal the last two or three days, and the lieutenant has come 
to recognize that it is not at all so difficult as he thought 
at first. " 

“I don't understand it a bit," she said, and sighed and 
looked very wistfully and pleadingly at Arnold, as though 
she knew there were some secret he was treasuring, which 
she would win from him by the mute entreaty of her 
eyes. 

But Arnold only smiled, and said there was nothing she 


68 


TWIXT LOVE AX’D DUTY. 


needed to learn; she had but to give way and do as they all 
begged her. 

All this while the Rev. Paul's woodpecker continued 
diligently to tap the hollow oak-tree, and the lieutenant to 
murmur between the verses that the vicar was very tune- 
ful that evening. 

“Tell me faithfully, Arnold," said Marian, “for I be- 
lieve you know more than I do, whether you think Uncle 
Lemuel can afford to send me away?" 

“ I know that he can," answered Arnold. “With some 
small sacrifice he can. " 

“ And will you not tell me how, Arnold?" 

“ What can there be to tell, Marian, dear? You go to- 
Madeira for awhile instead of to college, that is all. And 
even if there were some small sacrifice to be made, what 
would that be to him? You must think of yourself and of 
all that you want to do at college. The doctors will not 
let you touch your books again till you are well, and they 
say that you will never be well unless you go abroad imme- 
diately." 

“ To whom did they say that, Arnold?" 

“ To the lieutenant. You will go, dear Marian, will you: 
not?" 

“ And you, Arnold; would you have me go?" 

“ How can you ask, after what I have told you? What 
should I do to know that you were wasting here, with 
health waiting for you in Madeira? You will go, Marian?" 

The lieutenant held his breath as he watched them from 
beneath his eyelashes; for his instinct told him at what 
point they were. 

“ Yes," answered .Marian, “I will go;" and with this 
she seemed quite exhausted, and lay back with her eyes 
closed. 

At the same moment the Rev. Paul's woodpecker ceased 
its operations on the hollow oak-tree. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE ISSUE OF THE SCHEME. 

Two days later Arnold returned to town. 

No man ever felt more genuinely happy. It had all 
marched so splendidly; only just a little obstacle here and 


'twixt love axd duty. 


Off 


there, to try Ms mettle; and the goal won so easily at the 
last. Surely no one had ever before carried out so grand a 
scheme with such a small amount of labor. You see, he 
had forgotten the details, and the cost, and everything else,, 
at present : in the first blush of victory, the sense and con- 
sciousness of success are enough. 

He was perpetually slapping himself on the back, shak- 
ing himself by the hand, heaping compliment on compli- 
ment upon himself. The meanest thing he could be con- 
tent with saying to himself was that he was beyond doubt 
one of the cleverest fellows living. 

But it was only his cleverness, as he called it, that he- 
praised himself for. To the sacrifice he never gave a 
thought; would indeed have scorned to call it a sacrifice. 

In the office they supposed it was his promotion that had 
• elated him. Mr. Jones was never tired of felicitating him 
on his managership, and was ready with a hundred little 
offers of assistance, but Ms buzzing kindliness evoked no 
very cordial response from Arnold. 

Mr. Trimble was a shade less friendly than he had gen- 
erally been; he was peevish, and disposed to be exacting. 
But Arnold had learned to know his employer for a man of 
many moods; and he set down- his slightly altered tone to 
the prevalence of the east wind. 

The lieutenant, in his quiet fashion, was not less full of 
satisfaction than Arnold. 

Marian's consent had been gained; there was nothing: 
now but to arrange for her speedy departure. 

He wrote again to Dr. Wilson, thanked him for his kind 
solicitude, and begged him, if he thought it might be done 
without offense, to communicate with his friend Mrs. . 
Warren. 

A few days later came Dr. Wilson's second reply. Mrs. 
Wilson had written to Mrs. Warren, explaining the case 
fully, and Mrs. Warren had said in response that it gave 
her hearty pleasure to accede to Mrs. Wilson's proposal. 
She had been half disposed this year to forego her usual 
visit to Madeira, since the friend who had accompanied her 
the previous year was unable to join her this winter, and 
she was growing too old to care to travel alone. She 
therefore welcomed the idea of going out in company with 
the young lady of whom her friend Mrs. Wilson had spoken 
in such cordial terms. Perhaps Miss Dean would be dis- 


70 ’twixt love and duty. 

posed to share with Mrs. Warren the lodgings she had oc- 
cupied during her last stay in Madeira, which Mrs. Warren 
had been informed would be at her disposal any time after 
the middle of January. Finally, if Mrs. Wilson would for- 
ward Miss Dean’s address, Mrs. Warren would write to her 
without delay. 

“ Really, my dear, there are very kind people in the 
world,” said the lieutenant, when he had read this to 
Marian. “ You must, I think, write at once to this benev- 
olent lady, and thank her most appropriately, in your 
own name and in mine. We have reason to feel much 
gratitude; and, for my part, I am deeply sensible of the 
kindness that has been shown us by persons upon whom we 
have no claim in the world. Not but what I trust we 
should have done the like ourselves, had a call been made 
upon us in similar circumstances, and we had been able to 
respond to it. ” 

“ Yes, Uncle Lemuel,” replied Marian. 

Poor Marian! she really did not know what to think of 
all this. The kindness of these strangers she felt, perhaps, 
in no degree less than her uncle; but she was still uneasy 
in mind as to the promise she had given, and had she not 
gathered from Arnold’s words that to refuse now would 
possibly be to involve her uncle in greater expense in the 
future, she would have revoked her promise and declined 
to go. 

By the same day’s post, however, she wrote to Mrs. War- 
ren, and the lieutenant wrote to Arnold, acquainting him 
with the further development of their scheme. 

Mrs. Warren’s answer came by return of post; five pages 
closely written, in precise and upright letters; all the tf’s 
crossed and all the i’s dotted. 

“ You will find me, my dear,” wrote Mrs. Warren, “ a 
little, wrinkled, tiresome, fidgety old woman, plagued with 
the toothache sometimes, when nobody can bear with me. 
Why I should go to Madeira I don’t know, for, except the 
toothache, I haven’t an ill in the world. But I must be mov- 
ing about, and if I didn’t go to Madeira, I should go some- 
where else; and I always have the house cleaned at this 
time, instead of the spring, and I never could stay at home 
when there was house-cleaning: and my maids too, are 
very glad to get rid of me for awhile.” 

Then followed a descriptive account of Madeira, and a 


TWIXT LOYE AXD DUTY. 


71 


couple of pages as to the things that Marian would need 
to take with her. Mrs. Warren concluded by saying that as 
the steamer by which she would go was to sail on the 10th 
of J anuary, Marian ought to come to town as soon as she 
conveniently could, to make her purchases, and have every- 
thing ready in comfortable time; and would she stay with 
Mrs. Warren, who would enjoy nothing better than to do 
all her shopping for her? As it was of course impossible 
for Miss Dean to travel to London alone, would Lieutenant 
Dean also accept a room in Mrs. Warren's house until they 
sailed for Madeira? 

“ Such downright goodness of heart I have not known 
in all my life!" exclaimed the lieutenant, whose breath was 
fairly taken away; and he hastened oft to tell Paul. 

Four days later Arnold received the lieutenant and Ma- 
rian at the Paddington station. She was pale and tired, 
but in the best of spirits, and very curious to see her new 
friends. 

Mrs. Warren was the owner of a tiny house in Bayswater. 
In the summer the front of it was hidden under a spread- 
ing creeper; a carved brass knocker glistened in the center 
of the red door, and the two steps looked as if they were 
scoured twice a day. 

An exceedingly trim maid opened the door the moment 
the cab stopped, and behind her stood Mrs. W arren. She 
was small, as she had said, and wrinkled; but a pair of 
bright brown eyes gave wonderful vivacity to her face, and 
she was as upright as a cavalry officer. She had white 
teeth, and a rather strong jaw, and her hair — silver gray 
and thin — was brushed back from her forehead, 

“So here you are, my dear; and very tired too, I am 
sure. And this is Lieutenant Dean, your uncle? Perhaps 
I ought to say that I am Susanna Warren, and now, my 
dear, you must be taken to your room at once; and when 
we have settled you comfortably in bed. Lieutenant Dean 
and I will quarrel over our dinner together. " 

And Mrs. Warren, with her hand on Marian's arm, led 
her upstairs to a diminutive room, where wax-candles 
were lighted and a fire burning, and the coverlet turned 
back upon the daintiest bed that ever beauty slept in. 

By breakfast-time the next morning, Mrs. Warren had 
already done much to strengthen her claim on Marian's 
gratitude. She announced that she meant to be quite as 


72 


'twixt loye and duty. 


good as her word in the matter of whatever purchases Ma- 
rian required to have made. The lieutenant should accom- 
pany her; and Marian was to stay at home and rest until 
the day for sailing arrived. 

Mrs. Warren had a way of taking people under her com- 
mand which made excuse or escape impossible, and the 
lieutenant found himself marched here and there over town 
during the task of completing Marian's purchases. 

As for Marian, she found it all very strange, hut very 
» pleasant and easeful. In Mrs. Warren's small establish- 
ment everything was ordered to perfection. A martinet in 
the kitchen as in the parlor, her two servants were models 
of neatness, punctuality, and silence. All things were 
done with mechanical regularity and precision, hut so 
skilled and apt was Mrs. Warren's rule that there was never 
a sign of strain or severity; everything seemed easy and 
luxurious. This is the triumph of the good housewife. 

At a quarter to eight in the morning Mrs. Warren went 
down-stairs, and found the parlor-maid waiting with the 
tea-caddy and the measuring-spoon. 

At five minutes to eight she went into the hall and said, 
in a tone loud enough to be heard in the kitchen: “ Those 
who are ready." 

This was the signal for prayers, which Mrs. Warren 
commenced to read on the stroke of eight, whether the rest 
of the household were ready or not. 

At the last stroke of eight in the evening you would hear 
the parlor-maid's foot on the last step coming up from the 
kitchen with the tea-tray in her hand. 

It was an ideal retreat for an invalid, and in three days 
Marian fancied she was well, and told Mrs. W arren she did 
not think she would go to Maderia. 

“We will see about that, my dear," replied Mrs. Warren, 
with tranquil decision. 

Arnold's name had been mentioned by the lieutenant at 
dinner on the first evening, and the next day Marian was 
instructed to say that Mrs. W arren hoped he would call 
whenever and as often as he was at liberty. 

Arnold availed himself of this invitation every night. 

One evening he found the lieutenant in conversation with 
a handsome gentleman, whose manner was quiet and rather 
grave. The lieutenant introduced him to Arnold as Mr. 
Gilbert Reade, Mrs, Warren's nephew. 


'TWIXT LOVE AX'D DUTY. 


73 


Mr. Reade gave Arnold a pleasant, friendly bow, and 
went on talking to the lieutenant. 

“ Is it a bad time of year for sailing?” asked the lieu- 
tenant. 

“ It will not be pleasant in the Bay, but I hope we shall 
sail smoothly after that,” replied Mr. Reade. 

Arnold pricked up his ears and looked from Mr. Reade 
to the lieutenant. But neither of them noticed his in- 
quiring glance, and a moment later Mr. Reade rose to* 
leave. 

The lieutenant went with him to the door, and Mrs.. 
Warren, coming down-stairs just then, told Arnold that if 
he liked to go upstairs Marian would receive him. 

He went up at once, rather curious about this handsome 
stranger who hoped for smooth sailing after the Bay of 
Biscay. 

“ Have you seen him, Arnold?” were Marian's first 
words. 

“ Seen whom?” 

“Why, the man, the personal conductor — what is liis. 
name, Mr. Gilbert Reade?” 

“ Oh, yes, I have seen him.” 

“ Well, what is he like, Arnold?” 

“ He has a brown beard, and a splendid straight back* 
and seems sparing of his words — who is he, Marian?” 

“Haven't you heard? He is Mr. Gilbert Reade, Mrs. 
Warren's nephew.” 

“ Yes, I have heard that much; but what more of him?” 

“Well, I don't know much more, except that Mrs. 
Warren said last night that he was going to the Cape in 
the same steamer with us, and would protect us to Maderia.” 

“Oh!" replied Arnold. 

“ Why we need to be protected, I don't know,” went on 
Marian. “ I think it's rather stupid. He can't protect us 
from seasickness, I suppose, which is all the protection I 
want; but Mrs. Warren says that ‘you should always take 
a man when you can get him,' and as she has ‘got' Mr. 
Reade, we are going to ‘ take ' him, or rather, I imagine, he 
is going to take us." 

“ To the Cape, do you say he is going?” 

“Yes, to Cape Town, I think. He is the head of some 
firm here in London, which has connections out there, and 
he is going on business.” 


74 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


“ All; then you won’t see a good deal of him, I dare say/* 
answered Arnold, apparently rather relieved. 

Those last few days were precious to Arnold, and pleas- 
ant, I think, to Marian. It was long since they had en- 
joyed so much of each other’s society. They talked a great 
deal of all that Marian was to see in Madeira, of what she 
was to do when she returned with more than her old 
strength, and of the progress that Arnold was to make in 
his new position. 

But the last day came at length. Marian had benefited 
greatly by her brief sojourn in Mrs. Warren’s comfortable 
house, and was quite ready for the journey. Arnold ob- 
tained a day’s leave, and drove with them to the docks. 

There for the first time Marian was introduced to Mr. 
Reade; but a merely formal word passed between them, for 
Mrs. Warren took immediate possession of her nephew, and 
dispatched him this way and that, to see that their luggage 
was properly bestowed, that no one had appropriated their 
cabin, “ and just find out, if you can, Gilbert, whether the 
captain is a total abstainer. ” 

The signal was given for the friends of passengers to 
quit the boat. Arnold and the lieutenant were the last to 
leave. “It is for a few months only, dear,” said the lieu- 
tenant, as Marian clung about his neck and kissed him. 

Then came Arnold’s turn; but this was very brief; for 
the last bell had rung and the captain was impatient. 

A momentary clinging of hands — her hand in his two, a 
close and tender pressure of palm to palm, and the tremor 
felt beneath the glove. 

“Good-bye, Arnold!” 

“ Good-bye, dear Marian, good-bye!” 

“You are not to forget me quite.” 

“ It is I who should say that!” 

“Good-bye!” 

“ Good-bye!” 

A few moments later and the moorings had been cast off, 
and the vessel steamed slowly out of the docks. Arnold and 
the lieutenant stood together on the quay, bare-headed, 
their eyes straining to see the last of Marian. 


'twixt loye axd duty. 


75 


CHAPTER X. 

CHUMS IX - CHAMBERS. 

At about a quarter to five in the evening a certain sub- 
dued hum and bustle in the clerks' room of Mr. Trimble's 
ofllce betokened that the day's work was drawing to a 
close. 

The office-boy got down from his stool beside the door 
whereon, the last half hour, he had been indulging his 
favorite dream of chasing the buffalo on the bounding 
prairie and scalping the Indian in his wigwam; and set the 
press in readiness for the letters that were to be copied. 

The two juniors began to gather up the books and range 
them in order in the great case which occupied one side of the 
room. 

Mr. Jones finished the private correspondence with which 
he was generally engaged from four to five, and retired for 
a few minutes with his brush and comb. 

At five minutes to the hour Mr. Trimble's brougham 
drew up outside, and Mr. Trimble himself was heard to ar- 
range his papers, and then to cross the room to where his 
hat and coat hung. 

Next his hand-bell sounded, and the junior clerk went 
in to receive the letters. 

At the first stroke of five Mr. Trimble came out, button- 
ing his coat; his invariable formula during the winter 
months being “ Wind still in the east, I suppose." 

When he had finished buttoning his coat he said, “G'd- 
night to you," and stepped into his brougham. 

A quarter of an hour later, on evenings when there was 
no special press of work, the office was generally cleared. 

Mr. Jones was usually the first to follow his principal, 
but this evening he spent an extra minute or two before the 
glass which he propped up inside his desk to assist him in 
finishing his toilet. 

The juniors had gone, and the boy was sorting the letters 
for the post. 

“ Quick with those letters, young Tomahawk," said Mr. 
Jones, and the eye of Master Jarvis kindled, for he was 
proud of any word from Mr. Jones. 


76 


'tW t IXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


Mr. Jones adjusted his tie, put the glass back in its 
place, and took up his„ hat. 

“Now, my little pathfinder, off with you. Hullo! 
where did you get that black eye? It is a black eye, though 
you've been trying to whiten it." 

“ They wos three horfis boys in the row. Mister Jones, 
an' they hups and cheeks me. An' I says, f Look yer,' I 
says, * I'm a littl' un, but I don't stan' no cheek.' Then I 
w'oops like wot a Injin do, an' 'its out'ard." 

“ Ah! the other boy seems to have hit out harder. Do 
you go to Sunday-school, Jarvis?" 

“I kin say six collicks, forrads or backuds. Mister 
■Jones." 

“ Very good. But don't you fight again with any boy 
who can't do the same. Now scanner. A nice young Arab 
you to be in our office!" 

And Jarvis pocketed the letters and went off, as proud 
of Mr. J ones as he was of his black eye. 

“ One like him's wasted oh our guvner," said Master 
Jarvis, as he scuttled down the row. “ 'E should a bin a 
Injin chief. Knows all about it, too, I lay. Called me 
. young Tomahawk. If he was one of the real Bed-uns you'd 
a'most let him skelp ye for nothink. " 

Still Mr. Jones seemed in no hurry to leave the office. 

He strolled into the little room which had recently been 
appropriated to Arnold, where Arnold was yet at work. 

“ Still at it, old fellow? What a horse you are to work!" 

“ When a man gets his screw raised he must do some- 
thing for it, you know," replied Arnold. 

“ Ye-es; p'raps so, p'raps so. But, do you know, if 
Trim had made me manager I should have been disposed to 
put the drag on: taken it a little easy." 

“That's not quite my way of looking at it; and it's 
scarcely Trimble's idea, I expect. " 

“ Oh, Trim, no! Trim will get all he can out of you. 
But you're too conscientious. Leer I'd see Trim in Chancery 
before I worked overtime. You don't put enough on to 
the rest of us. Shift a little more on me, for example: I 
don't like to see a fellow working himself to death because 
he's had his screw raised. " 

Arnold looked up at his fellow-clerk and laughed a free 
and hearty laugh. 


’twixt love akd duty. 


77 


“You’re quite too kind, old fellow," he said. “Work 
ivon’t kill me, so make yourself easy on that score." 

“Well, don’t be squeamish about asking when you want 
a hand. Put that draft away now and come and dine with 
me. We’ll go to my club; the quietest little place in 
town. ’’ 

“ Another night. I’ll finish the draft before I go. ’’ 

“ As you choose, my young friend. Business before 
pleasure. That’s the motto of all industrious ’prentices 
who rise to be managers — eh, isn’t it? Well, if there’s no 
stirring you, I won’t interrupt. I’ll go home and dine 
virtuously with the old lady. But if you won’t come out 
with me, I shall look you up in your own place one of these 
nights. ’’ 

.“ All right; I’ll fill a pipe for you whenever you come. 
Good-night." 

“Jones’s attentions are becoming emphatic," remarked 
Arnold, when his friend had gone. “And I fancy he 
seems inquisitive. ’’ 

Yes; Mr. Jones was very attentive to Arnold in those 
days; and he was also exceedingly inquisitive. The truth 
is, Mr. Jones was playing the part of the cunning hunter. 
There was game abroad, and he wanted to trap it, but was 
not yet certain of its whereabouts. He thought, however, 
that he was on the scent. 

While Arnold was away, Jones had carried Mr. Trimble’s 
pass-book to the bank one day. Peeping between the 
leaves, he had spied an entry which provoked his curiosity 
in an extraordinary degree. It was an entry of two hun- 
dred and fifty pounds with Arnold’s name against it. 

“Ha! What’s that for?" said Mr. Jones. And this 
same question he was still asking himself, by day and by 
night, with ever-increasing curiosity, perplexity, and won- 
derment. Mysterious it undoubtedly was; and who loved 
to busy himself with a mystery more than Mr. Jones? 

“ There’s a fine secret here, if one could get at it," said 
he, at least fifty times a day; so he peeped and peered, and 
put all manner of innocent questions; and, above every- 
thing, he tried to get himself accepted as Arnold’s phi- 
losopher and friend. 

But there was a kind of stubborn honest reserve about 
the young man which Mr. Jones had not yet found the 
knack of penetrating. 


78 


*TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


Presently Arnold dismissed Mr. Jones from his thoughts, 
and gave himself up to other reflections, which were in no 
way more agreeable. A shadow of uneasiness rested on his 
pleasant features; the merest cloudlet, but it stayed there. 

He pushed his papers away, set his arms upon the desk, 
and began mentally to pass certain matters in review. 

It was a month since he had seen Marian sail for Madeira. 
During that time he had been working diligently, and yet, 
as it seemed, unavailingly. He could not understand why 
he had made so little progress. Little progress? He had 
made none at all — he had been drifting. 

The reader has perhaps tugged at an oar, with wind and 
stream against him; has strained till the muscles ached, 
and made no appreciable headway. Who has done this 
will realize Arnold/s position. 

Such beggarly results had never followed from such 
strenuous endeavors. Yet, what troubled him as much 
as anything, there was no specific failure he could charge 
himself with. It was merely that the general outcome of 
his efforts had not succeeded in pleasing either himself or 
his principal. 

Mr. Trimble, he fancied, had been more exacting than 
of old; irritable, too, beyond his wont. 

Nothing gave him satisfaction; he overflowed with petty 
complaints. Why had Lee done this? Why had he not 
done that? A splenetic man at all times, he had gener- 
ally vented most of his spleen on Jones and the junior 
clerks, but these last few weeks he had reserved it all for 
Arnold. 

Altogether, the lad was disappointed and sore at heart. 

It was as though some malign influence were ojDposing 
him, some hidden thing which he could not baffle because 
he could not discover and confront it. 

But he took comfort, for he knew that his was the 
strongest place in the office; and come the worst, he was 
still the strongest man in it. 

Was Trimble playing with him, or was this merely his 
mode of testing him? 

“If it is to be a question of endurance," said Arnold, 
pushing himself back in his chair, and setting his feet 
against the desk, “he will not quickly tire me out." 

He locked his papers into his desk at length, closed the 
office, and set off to walk to his chambers. 


TWIXT LOYE AXD DUTY. 


79 


His chambers were in Staple Inn, where he lived with 
a chum, one Dick Bell, a Government clerk, of good fam- 
ily, who had a salary of a hundred and twenty pounds a 
year, and was a poet to hoot. Arnold and he had shared 
chambers for three years past, with never a quarrel; one 
reason why they had chummed so pleasantly being, per- 
haps, that they had scarcely a taste in common. 

Dick was a happy-go-lucky youngster, who spent con- 
siderably more than his income on his clothes, and would 
have lived at the rate of five hundred pounds a year if 
Arnold had not kept him in check. 

By an absurd Disarrangement, poet Dick, whose tastes 
and likings were Capuan, had been appointed caterer to 
the establishment when they first went into partnership; 
and Arnold had frequently to remind him that his pur- 
chases for the table would have suited admirably a pair of 
wealthy sprigs in the Albany, but were not at all adapted 
to the needs of two lean-pursed bachelors in Staple Inn. 

They had an occasional small disagreement on this score, 
and Arnold's domestic peace was further broken in upon 
by the continuous war which the poet waged with the Irish 
charwoman who did miscellaneous offices and thefts in their 
chambers 

Life in an old Inn of Court has a certain remote and 
quiet charm of its own. Dick, the poet, found it tedious; 
Arnold, the solicitor's clerk, enjoyed it. 

The Inns of Court have their own quaint physiognomy, 
which is not that of modern London. Centuries of change 
have passed over them, bringing no change to them, save 
perhaps a deepening of the tints of the houses and a partial 
blotting-out of some ancient characters. One who visits 
them for the first time is struck by their grave and sober 
air, their aspect of gray antiquity, and their seeming re- 
moteness from the noisy world outside. They seem as 
though they should be little cities of refuge from the toils 
and burdens and manifold deceptions of the great London 
which hems them in; yet this assuredly they are not — as 
many simple folk who have business with the dwellers there 
find to their cost. 

Staple Inn is one of the quietest of them all. A dingy 
place almost, at least to those who can not see it properly: 
but Arnold had never found it either dingy or dull. 

Its corporate character has long since departed; the old 


80 


TWIXT LOYE AND DETY. 


brown dining-hall, which looks like a chapel from the out- 
side, is closed, and there are cobwebs in the corners of the 
windows; but the two small squares appear now much as 
they must have done a hundred years ago. The faces of 
the houses may be stained a deeper brown, and the stones 
that pave the outer square may be grayer and more fretted, 
but the resident of a century ago would have small trouble- 
in recognizing his Inn were he to revisit its glimpses. 

Arnold and the poet had their chambers at the top of a 
high house in the inner square, fronting the patch of gar- 
den which stretches up to the walls of the dining-hall. 

The ascent to this aerial retreat was by a wide and wind- 
ing wooden stair, and at every landing there were doors 
with names printed on them. 

The topmost landing belonged to Arnold and his friend,, 
and served them as hall, ante-chamber, and service-room. 
It was bare of carpet, and was lighted by a barred window 
about the size of a port-hole. 

Arnold always felt, 'when he turned out of Holborn and 
entered the low, black gates of the Inn, that he had put 
the office and its cares behind him. To-night he was 
especially glad of this, for the office had been a little too 
much with him of late. But he did not always get the rest, 
he bargained for at home. 

As he went through the arched passage leading to the 
inner square, there broke upon his ear a tremendous fusil- 
lade of words in the Irish tongue, ending with : 

“ Go *lang wid ye, ye bad, bould boy! For two pins I'd 
go up an* bate the life out av ye.” 

“ Confound those two! they're at it again," said Arnold. 

At the foot of the stairs, grasping the rail with one 
hand, and shaking a clinched fist at an invisible foe, stood 
a fat woman, with black hair and a desperately red face, 
the upper part of her muscular person swathed in a thick 
blanket-like shawl. 

This was Mrs. Fagan, the charwoman. They call them 
laundresses in the Inns, by the way; but you would have 
hesitated before accusing Mrs. Fagan of any connection 
with a wash-tub. 

“'"Well, Mrs. Fagan," said Arnold, with an expression 
half of annoyance and half amusement, “what is it now?" 

“Faix, surr, *tis Misther Bell — devil comfort him!" 

“ Is that you, Lee?" shouted the poet from the top of 


’twixt loye and duty. 81 

the stairs. “ Send for the beadle. She has watered the 
milk again!” 

“ Oh, my! oh, wirra! Do hut hear’m?” groaned Mrs. 
Fagan. “He has the life worrited out ay me. Milk!: 
'Tis yersel’ knows, Misther Lee,” she went on, appealing 
to Arnold, “that I wouldn’t come near the milk for wur- 
rulds. Oh, wirra! wirra!” 

“Hum! The milk has been very thin lately, Mrs. 
Fagan,” said Arnold. 

“ Thrue for ye, suit; but I hear that same wheriver I 
go. The mischief’s in the milk this good while; but sure- 
that’s no fau’t o’ mine.” 

“ I don’t know but the thunder might have had some- 
thing to do with it,” put in the pacificatory Arnold. 

“ Troth, ’tis the tunder, widout a doubt, thankin’ ye, 
surr.” 

“Lee, you’re taking her part; Fm ashamed of you!” 
screamed the irate poet. “I tell you she has fleeced us; 
the larder’s almost empty. Do we eat a loaf at a meal, or 
two pounds of beefsteak at a sitting, or burn half a pound 
of candles in anight? Go, woman! I denounce you! Go!” 

“ It certainly is strange about those candles, Mrs. Fagan.” 

“Ah, don’t be talkin’ to me!” broke out Mrs. Fagan, 
again. “ Candles, is it? D’ye think I’d be beholden to yiz 
for dips at fourpince the pound? See here now, the lavin’s 
ay yiz both for a month wouldn’t be the makin’ of ona 
dasent male for me kyat, let alone mesel’.” 

“Really, Mrs. Fagan,” replied Arnold, apologetically,, 
“I believe you’re right in that.” 

“ Oh, ’tis I that am right, surr, and no mistake. But f 
I’ll char no more for yiz — sorra one sthroke more.” 

“ What does she say, Lee?” 

“Mrs. Fagan says she is compelled to relinquish her 
office. She will char no more for us.” 

“ But we have two men to dinner to-morrow; after that 
she may go hang.” The poet’s tone, however, was a shade 
less violent, and he came down to the next landing. 

“You really can not leave us at a moment’s notice, Mrs. 
Fagan,” urged Arnold. 

“ Sorra one sthroke more,” replied Mrs. Fagan, tighten- 
ing her shawl in a resolute manner. 

“What does she say, Lee?” 

“ Mrs. Fagan’s decision is sorra one stroke more.” 


82 


'TWIXT LOVE AX'D DUTY. 


“But that is absurd; she can't go till after to-morrow." 
And the poet descended to the first landing. 

“ You will put us out greatly, Mrs. Fagan, if you go so 
suddenly. And really," went on Arnold, “I have often 
wished that all house-maids had your skill in bedmaking, 
Mrs. Fagan." 

“ She has no equal at bedmaking," said the poet. “If 
she would only leave the cupboard alone." 

“D'ye hear that, suit? Cupboard, bedad! 'Twould be 
a 'cute mouse 'ud find a cheese-parin' there. " 

“You know. Bell, we have never seen Mrs. Fagan at the 
cupboard," put in Arnold. 

“Well, no, that's true; we have never seen her there." 
And the poet put a curly head and round boyish face over 
the stair-rail and confronted Mrs. Fagan. 

“'Tis a terrible sad thing," said Mrs. Fagan to him, 
“when a good-lookin' young gintleman like you, suit, 
takes to blackguardin', an' me that has stitched yer but- 
tons on this three year. " 

“ I really think we owe a good deal to Mrs. Fagan, Bell," 
said Arnold. 

“Well, perhaps she has done us a turn or two." 

“ See that now! I knew ye weren't so bad as ye'd pre- 
tend. But I'm for lavin' yiz notwithstandin'." 

“Come now, Mrs. Fagan, think better of it," said Ar- 
nold, soothingly. 

“We'll give you one more chance, Lucy," added the 
poet. 

“ Sorra one ha'porth av a chance I'll take from ye," an- 
swered the stout Fagan. 

“Dick," said Arnold, “didn't we say last night we 
thought we couldn't get through that leg of mutton?" 

“ There's a good two pounds of it upstairs this minute," 
replied the poet. 

Mrs. Fagan adjusted her shawl, and prepared to go. 

“I wonder," said Arnold, “whether Mrs. Fagan would 
help us with that mutton?" 

“You're fond of cold mutton, Lucy; you needn't turn 
up your nose; you know you are," said the poet. 

“Ye'd be tellin' me to-morrow that I shtole it," object- 
ed Mrs. Fagan. 

m ce Suppose you run up and put the mutton in paper, 
Dick," suggested Arnold. 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


83 


The poet vanished up the stairs, and returned in a 
minute with a brown-paper parcel in his hand. 

“Put this under your shawl, Lucy, and see that you 
manage well for us to-morrow," said he. 

“ Y*are the true gintleman now, Misther Bell; an*, savin* 
yer presences, me darlins, Pd be set up entirely av I had 
the laste taste o* tay to wash this down with." 

“ Fetch a pinch of tea, Dick," said Arnold, and the poet 
disappeared again and returned with half a pint of tea in a 
cup. 

“ Tie this up in your handkerchief, Lucy/* said he. 

“Faix, I will, surr, and the saints presarve yiz both!" 

And Mrs. Fagan retired, with her air of injured inno- 
cence, and the vanquished two ascended to their chambers. 

“That is an exceedingly clever old woman," observed 
the poet as he turned the handle of the door. “ We are 
no match for her. " 

“No; it was ever thus," answered Arnold. “And she 
had our new loaf under her shawl the whole time." 

“Yes, "said the poet. “That shawl of hers covers a 
multitude of sins. ** 

“ Well, what have you got for supper?** asked Arnold. 

“Kidneys, my dear boy; splendid kids.’* 

“ None of your kidneys! I want a steak!** 

“And a mushroom or two to follow the kidneys." 

“ Dick, how long am I to stand this? You*ll have to 
give the housekeeping up to me. Two nights ago you 
spent half a week*s supper-money on two dozen oysters, 
and we had to go out and buy pressed beef when we*d eaten 
them. You*re bringing us to bankruptcy, and starving us 
into the bargain ! A pretty fellow, you, to cater for men 
with purses like ours!** 

“You solicitors are such gross feeders, there*s no filling 
you. For my part, I like to leave off with a feeling of 
room for a little more." 

“ Ah! well, that*s just the feeling I have after a meal of 
your providing, Dick.** 

“And very proper too. Your brain is all the better 
for my system. Would you have been Trimble*s mana- 
ger to-day if I*d gorged you on beefsteak and porter? Hold 
your tongue, and wait for these kidneys! Why, wliat*s 
this? Oh, horrible! Lucy has taken the kidneys!** 


84 


’TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


He threw open the cupboard as he spoke, and, with long 
faces, they both looked into it. 

“ Yes,” observed Bell, at length; “"Lucy is, without 
doubt, an uncommonly clever old woman. ” 

“ She is more than that,” said Arnold; “ there is a 
touch of genius about Lucy. But I see that she has left 
us the mushrooms — at a certain time of life they are diffi- 
cult of digestion — and a good half of a stale loaf. How is 
your chance to distinguish yourself with the mushrooms, 
Dick, for I don’t think we can alford another supper to- 
night.” 

“Good! On second thoughts, though. I’ll leave the 
mushrooms for you, and run up to Russell Square. Cousin 
Joseph will be sitting down to his mutton in half an hour.” 

Poet Dick put this resolution into effect at once, and 
Arnold, left to his own devices, sat down growling to a 
supper of bread-and-cheese, being quite incapable of cook- 
ing the mushrooms. 

Supper over, he sat down to put into shape some notes 
of an essay he was writing for a law journal, for he did a 
stroke of journalism in his leisure hours, and during some 
years had supplemented his salary by the small profits of 
his pen. But his thoughts refused to come that evening, 
and after half an hour’s fruitless efforts he gave up the 
task, lit his pipe, and sat down by the fire to dream. 

“I wonder what Marian’s doing now,” he said; then, 
being in somewhat of a fault-finding mood — for he was as 
hungry as a jackal — he went on to tell himself that he 
thought she might have found time to send him a line: 
wondered how much of her society she had given during 
the voyage to the man with the brown beard, and devoutly 
hoped that person was now many hundred miles from her 
at the Cape. 

After this he took out of his pocket, and began to read 
for the twentieth time, a letter he had lately received 
from his uncle, in which, interlarded with much that was 
of pregnant interest to the writer, but slightly tedious to 
the reader, there was here and there a welcome scrap re- 
lating to the exile in Madeira, the gleanings of various re- 
ports from the lieutenant. There was indeed nothing 
that the lieutenant himself had not told Arnold already by 
letter; but the tale was one which bore to be repeated. 

“ . . . Says she is already on the high-road to health. 


TWIXT LOYE AXD DUTY. 


85 


. . . Place a Paradise, etc. . . . Abundant messages for 
you, but Lem says he has given ’em to you, and you don’t 
want to hear them twice, I suppose. . . . Grapes pretty 
near as big as walnuts, and centipedes by hundreds in the 
bedrooms. . . . Lem quite a new creature since she went, 
and don’t seem pinched in pocket either. ” 

Arnold was still conning these sentences, and trying to 
form out of them some picture of Marian’s daily life in 
that soft Atlantic isle, when he heard a light and spring- 
ing step on the stairs, coming in the direction of his room. 

“ Cousin Joseph not at home, I suppose,” he said, re- 
turning the vicar’s letter to his pocket. “ Eh? No; it 
isn’t Dick! Come in!” for the light and springing step 
had stopped outside the door, which was rapped upon 
smartly. 

The door opened, and Mr. Jones appeared on the 
threshold. 

“ Oh, is it you, Jones? Honored, I’m sure, Jones. First 
time you’ve looked me up, I think.” 

“ Well, come now, that’s too bad, Lee, for you’ve never 
given me an invitation.” 

This, I am afraid, was true. At any rate, Arnold made 
no attempt to deny it, but he did his best to put on a 
pleasant face as he got up to receive his visitor. 

“I hope you’ve dined, old fellow,” he said; “for the 
truth is our Abigail has just borrowed the contents of our 
larder, and Bell has had to go and forage for a dinner at 
his cousin’s.” 

“ Leaving you the cheese-parings, eh? Oh, yes, I’ve 
dined, thanks. I get the pull over you there, you see. I 
live with ma. You must give me a call some evening, Lee. 
Wonderfully interested in you, ma is.” 

“ Thanks, that’s very kind. I hope Mrs. Jones is well?” 

“ Oh, ma has beautiful health for an old lady. So these 
are your diggings, eh? Queer I should never have been in 
them before, isn’t it? But then, as I say, you didn’t ask 
me. Very decent diggings, Lee; very decent, indeed. No 
fear of tumbling over the furniture, but I think you’re 
Tight there; I hate to see a place choked with furniture. 
Nice old bit of carpet, this; and you’ve picked up some 
rather tidy prints there. Good-looking mantel-piece, that; 
it’s real, I suppose. Oh yes, ma’s wonderfully interested 
in you, Lee.” 


86 


'TWIXT LOVE A ND DUTY. 


“ Thanks, thanks; it^s very kind. But sit down, Jones. 
You are not going just yet, are you?" 

“ Not a bit of it, dear fellow. No, Fm chatty to-night." 

“That's right," said Arnold, inwardly deploring his 
friend's inexpugnable sociability. “Let me see, where's 
that pipe I promised you? You'll find tobacco on the 
ledge beside you." 

“Thanks, I'll fill for myself. Now, this is pleasant; 
this is domestic; this is the sort of party ma enjoys; and 
Fm no great stickler for style myself; give me something 
that reminds one of the family hearth. But I say, Lee, I 
suppose you'll be shifting from here by and by?" 

“From here? oh, no, not a thought of it. What do I 
want better than this?" 

“ Oh, it's well enough; but, you see, you've got on to 
the high-road. now — a partnership in view, eh? I fancied 
you might be thinking of setting up a place of your own." 

“No, I have no thought of that, and sha'n't have for a 
precious long while, I expect. Partnership? No, I don't 
fancy that’s in Trimble's mind." 

“ Ah! shouldn't be at all surprised if it was , you know; 
Trim's fond of you, Lee. Has an oddish way of showing 
it sometimes, hasn't he? Yes, Trim is crusty; Trim is 
precious crusty; but don't let that bother you, old fellow. 
You mark my words, Lee: Trim will do something for you 
one of these days." 

“ Do you think so, Jones?" 

“Sure of it. And trust me to forward you all I can." 

“ Thanks; but don't you trouble about that. What Fm 
to do, I'll do without help." 

“ There's a spirit for you; oh, you'll get on; you'll pros- 
per, never fear." 

Mr. Jones smoked in silence for awhile, and appeared to 
derive much spiritual satisfaction from the thought of Ar- 
nold's future prosperity. 

Presently his eye fell on the papers at Arnold's elbow. 
“Hullo!" he exclaimed, “what's here? More work? Lit- 
erature, too, or I'm a Dutchman. What is it — something 
in our own line? A treatise on Contingent Remainders; 
no? Then it's a Guide to Costs; not that either? What is 
it, then?" 

“Notes, a few notes; nothing more, " replied Arnold, 
who relished Mr. Jones's curiosity in very small degree. 


'twixt love akd duty. 


87 


“ Do you call those a few notes?” said the eager friend. 
<e Well, if those are the notes, it's a big thing you've got on 
hand. Putting them away?” for Arnold, with scarcely con- 
cealed impatience, got up and carried the manuscript to 
another table. “ Well, we'll put them away, if you like. 
But, I say, what a mysterious one you are becoming, Lee? 
Not quite fair, you know, to an old friend like me. Mys- 
terious? yes, I should think so; and a lucky one, too; en- 
gaged by night in producing new editions of legal classics, 
and by day in drawing enormous sums from a crusty gov- 
ernor. And they do say, Lee” — here Mr. Jones's tone be- 
came extremely confidential — “ that Trim not only enlarged 
your screw seven-fold, but, in the fullness of his heart, drew 
you a blank check by way of Christmas-box. Why, my 
dear fellow, in the history of Trimble and Trimble, such 
generosity was never known before!” 

Mr. Jones had prepared this bolt carefully, and he 
watched narrowly for any effect it might take. 

Apparently it took none; for Arnold's face was expres- 
sionless as he replied : 

“ No, I should think not; and it hasn't occurred in my 
case yet. A blank check for a Christmas-box? Pooh? 
Trimble knows the worth of his money.” 

But that innocently sly remark of Mr. Jones's had given 
him an uncomfortable feeling. If he had been reticent 
before, he became almost silent now; and what talk fol- 
lowed was upon matters indifferent. 

Mr. Jones, however, stayed on, and did his utmost to 
make himself agreeable. He was still smoking Arnold's 
tobacco when the clock struck eleven, and Poet Dick re- 
turned from dining with Cousin Joseph. Arnold had 
never welcomed him so heartily before; his entry being 
the signal for Mr. Jones to take his leave. 

“ Had a pleasant evening, partner?” inquired the poet. 

“ Oh, a very pleasant evening, Dick; and you?” 

“I? Can you ask? Have I not been dining with 
Cousin Joseph? We commenced with white soup, had^ an 
anchovy to follow, and the entree was mutton cutlets a la 
Soubise. If I could prepare a mutton cutlet a la Soubise 
like Cousin Joseph's cook I would never ask to write verses 
again. " 

“ An ardent poet you, Dick!” 

“ Yes, indeed; for your great cooks are your only true 


88 


’twixt loye axd duty. 


poets. What’s this? Been working at the essay? Oh, I 
can’t have you stealing marches on me while I’m dining 
with Cousin Joseph. See; here goes for your labors to- 
night.” And Master Dick took up a full ink-pot and 
turned the contents over Arnold’s manuscript. 

“ You little villain!” exclaimed Arnold, who promptly 
seized the poet by the shoulders, and after shaking him 
vehemently, took him up and carried him to his bedroom,, 
where he locked him in for the night. 

Then he went to bed himself. 


CHAPTER XL 

ME. JOXES. 

He had his beginnings in a little dusty street leading out 
of the Mile End Road. His vividest memories of his father 
were associated with a back kitchen and a cane; and he 
only remembered in connection with the death of that 
parent that on the day the parish buried him he put the 
cane behind the fire and broke all the windows of the back 
kitchen. The fortunes of his mother, at that time a dress- 
maker in a humble way of business, took a turn for the 
better when the dissolute father died; and she was able 
shortly to move into decent lodgings in a reputable street. 
From that she rose to a small degree of prosperity, being 
a laborious and thrifty body; and bent all her spare ener- 
gies, and hoarded her meager savings, to advance her son 
in life. He approved and seconded her efforts up to a 
certain point. He was quite willing to wear (and wear 
out) clothes a little more modish than those of the boys he 
played with, but he drew the line at church-going. Sun- 
day-school he tolerated when he found that diligent at- 
tendance resulted in tangible benefits in the shape of small 
books with pictures and other spoils. 

The books with pictures, he represented to the other 
prize-winners, were readily convertible into instruments of 
gambling; and as many as listened to this suggestion parted 
with their prizes, for Master Jones had a lucky farthing. 

In Mile End in those days there were street fights 
amongst large parties of juvenile desperadoes; but Master 
J ones was only once caught by the policeman. He went 
along so meekly that the constable released his arm and 


’TWIXT LOVE A3STD DUTY. 


89 


held him lightly by the collar of his coat. In the barracks 
that evening he told, with something of admiration, how 
when the station came in sight the prisoner slipped his 
arms through his jacket and was far away down the 
crowded street in a twinkling. I am afraid the constable’s 
chuckle would have been heartier could he have heard 
Master Jones relate to his mother how he had given away 
his coat to a poor boy who had none. 

When he was ten years old his mother made influence 
with one of her customers, and procured him a free admis- 
sion to a school under the patronage of a Livery Company. 
Here the young genius thrived after his manner. He was 
always at the bottom of his class, but he came out surpris- 
ingly well in the half-yearly examinations. The reasons 
were that nothing was done viva voce , and the usher who 
had charge of the room where the examinations were held 
was very short-sighted. His class-master did not like him, 
but he was a favorite of the head-master, who thought 
him a promising pupil, requiring to be brought on with 
kindness. 

In the playground small and weakly boys fled at sight 
of him, but Master Jones himself was never bullied, for he 
had a curious knack of ingratiating himself with his elders, 
and most of his companions, moreover, had learned by ex- 
perience to believe in a favorite saying of his — that when 
any boy got the better of him, “ something was sure to 
happen ” to that boy. Thus, if he were taken down in 
class, the boy who was sent above him was almost certain 
to be caned before the day was out, and most generally for 
a fault which he was afterward shown not to have com- 
mitted. If he were accidentally kicked at football he would 
contrive to sit next the kicker when the lessons were being 
prepared in the evening, and the contents of an ink-pot . 
were easily diverted over a clean exercise. 

At the age of fourteen Master J ones left school. He had 
not taken a scholarship, nor made any considerable addition 
to the slender stock of intellectual acquirements with 
which he began, nor won any prizes for athletics; but he 
liad contrived year by year to strengthen the kindly feel- 
ings which the head-master had shown toward him from 
the first; and that discriminating pedagogue was at great 
pains to obtain for him a situation in a Government sav- 
ings-bank. 


90 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


It was not a high situation, nor a lucrative one, but the 
head-master in parting with him assured him that many 
men had amassed fortunes whose start in life had been less 
auspicious. Master Jones replied modestly that he was 
not covetous of riches, and that his chief aim would be to 
give satisfaction to his employers. 

“This lad,” said the head-master to himself, “has not 
been -four years under my care for nothing.” 

He gave him a copy of one of Dr. Smiles's works, and 
half-a-crown wrapped in paper. 

So Master Jones began life as a clerk in a Government 
savings-bank. He assumed a stiff collar, and a walking- 
stick with a tassel, and his mother's delight was to watch 
him strut down the street at half -past eight a.m., very 
scornful of the boys he had played with four years before. 

He was at this time a slim, white-faced youth, with 
freckles and a shifty eye. 

He was always punctual at the bank, and was not above 
helping the porter to carry the ledgers out of the safe be- 
fore the other clerks arrived. 

The manager marked him for a promising assistant. 
The junior clerk generally had something to do close by 
the manager's room when that gentleman arrived at half- 
past ten, and begged the privilege of assisting him in re- 
moving his coat. 

At all mere mechanical work he was apt enough, when 
he took the trouble to learn it; and, as a high order of 
intelligence is not demanded from junior clerks in a Gov- 
ernment savings-bank, he soon made himself proficient. 

He was polite to all the customers with whom he came 
in contact, received the shillings and half-crowns of the 
humbler depositors with as much empressement as if they 
had been bank-notes. Of all women with babies he in- 
quired after the health of the infant, and said he had heard 
his mother remark that weaning was a very trying process. 

He posted up the ledgers with scrupulous neatness, and 
was never guilty of a blot. 

But at the end of two years the junior clerk left the sav- 
ings-bank at short notice. No one but the manager and 
the chief cashier eve/ knew the reason, and they were ret- 
icent. 

At this point a hiatus occurs in the history of Mr. Jones's 
life. 


'twixt loye and duty. 


91 


He was sixteen when he left the Government savings- 
bank, and we are without a record of his career during the 
next two years. It may safely be conjectured, however, 
that he became dependent on his mother, whose careful 
savings he was at all times willing to spend. 

6e One of these days, ma, you shall ride in your carriage. 
DonY you be afraid; Fm going to take care of you,” he 
used to say, and Mrs. Jones put her handkerchief to her 
eyes, and asked whether any mother ever had so good a son. 
She believed in him, from the roots of his sandy hair to the 
tips of his boots, and, to do him justice, Mr. Jones was 
always very fond of his mother. Affection the most senti- 
mental is compatible with any and every degree of infi- 
delity. 

The reader might be gratified by an assurance that the 
savings-bank escapade contained no flagrant dishonesty. 
Not at all. It was merely a plan of supreme ingenuity by 
which the accounts of the bank in Mr. J ones’s department 
might be thrown into such irretrievable chaos that a clerk 
in the secret could have done as he pleased until the next 
audit. 

Widow Jones was more than satisfied with her son's story 
of the termination of his connection with the bank; per- 
ceived, indeed, that his superiors had wholly (and she 
feared willfully) misunderstood him, and was secretly glad 
that he had escaped from a position which offered no scope 
for the exercise of his singular and exceptional talents. 

There are stories — which I am disposed to regard as 
apocryphal — that for eighteen months or so from this peri- 
od Mr. Jones was the “X. Y. Z., 300b, City Road,” who 
through the medium of advertisements in remote provincial 
journals offered to show for twelvepence in stamps how the 
sum of half a crown might be converted without risk or 
labor into the sum of twenty pounds. 

These stories lack confirmation, and may therefore, I 
think, be discredited, though it is certain that at about 
this time Mr. Jones became a gentleman with a large cor- 
respondence, and the cane with the tassel was discarded for 
a cane with a silver knob. It is beyond question, too, that 
he was well known at this time to the landlord of a small 
sporting tavern in Islington, where in the bar-parlor the 
“ Turf Guide ” was the subject of nightly consultation by 
a coterie of young men who were inventing an invaluable 


92 


TWIXT LOVE AX'D DUTY. 


scheme for winning large sums on the race-course, the 
scheme to be divulged , on the payment of five shillings to 
the proprietors. This might perhaps he explained by the 
circumstance that he was collecting information on low life 
in London for one of the directors of the City Mission. 

At the end of two years our friend was once more in 
smooth waters. We find him not a whit less assiduous 
than of old, in a somewhat responsible position in a solicit- 
or's office in Bedford Row. 

He was neater than ever in person, grave and subdued 
in manner, alert and prompt, and abundantly painstaking. 
The master of St. Prendergast's, who shared Mrs. Jones's 
opinion that he had been wrongfully dismissed from the 
.savings-bank, had given him a spotless testimonial; his 
faultless address had done the rest. 

But his new situation did not please him. The firm was 
a small one, and but recently established, and the prospect 
of advancement was distant. 

The main part of the building was occupied by the sub- 
stantial and old-established firm of Trimble and Trimble* 
Jones set his heart on entering this more promising firm. 
He took many small opportunities to throw himself in Mr. 
Trimble's way. He was in the hall or on the stairs when 
Mr. Trimble entered or left his office, and would hold open 
the outer door for him with a respectful bow. When Mr. 
Trimble had occasion to be present in court young Mr. 
Jones was often able to procure him a cab, and having seen 
the portly solicitor safely bestowed, would tell the cabman 
in an under-tone to “ drive carefully." Sometimes when 
coming up the street behind Mr. Trimble he would skip on 
in front and whisk a bit of orange-peel out of the way. By 
and by Trimble nodded when he met him, and Jones's- 
pleased but quiet “ How do you do, sir?" in response to 
this recognition, made a due impression. 

“ This seems a polite and worthy youngster," Mr. 
Trimble .used to say to himself. “ Looks a smart fellow 
too; I'll keep an eye on him." 

Pains and patience brought their reward. 

Mrs. Jones was now tolerably well off. The dress- 
making business had thriven, and the widow had her show- 
room, as well as her shop, and a staff of assistants. She 
had some skill in designing, and exhibited a variety of 
artistic bedizenments at a show of feminine costumes, which 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


93 


brought fashionable custom to her doors. A friend of Mr* 
Trimble's eldest daughter, between whom and her own 
dress-maker a serious difference had occurred on a question 
of trimmings, recommended the young lady to apply to 
Mrs. Jones, and the ball-dress which Mrs. Jones made for 
Miss Trimble elicited a word of critical approval from 
Trimble pere. 

How strangely are matters ordered! 

A difference arising out of a question of trimmings was- 
predestined to furnish a comfortable berth for Mr. Jones- 
in the office of Trimble and Trimble. 

Mrs. Jones had a pleasant confidential way with her 
customers, and dropped a word or two which interested 
Miss Trimble in the career of the widow's only son. 

Mrs. J ones did not hesitate to refer to the affair of the- 
savings-bank — a sad misunderstanding which had taken 
place between her son and the manager, occasioning much 
pain to the lad himself, and compelling him ultimately to 
throw up his situation. Mrs. Jones honestly believed that 
this was the cause of her son's leaving the bank. 

Such an excellent son! And had such a beautiful testi- 
monial from that great school-master and benevolent man. 
Dr. Birchall, of St. Prendergast's. And was now in the 
office of Messrs. Gulpin and Green, who were more than 
satisfied with him, but with whom Mrs. Jones feared he 
had little chance of rising to the position for which his 
talents and great trustworthiness fitted him in an eminent 
degree. 

“ Gulpin and Green! Oh, no, indeed! There is ne 
chance for any one there, I should think. A very poor 
firm. I believe papa has an opening for a good clerk," 
said Miss Trimble. 

How strangely are matters ordered! 

Miss Trimble interested Mrs. Trimble, and they both 
opened fire on Mr. Trimble. 

“ You might just give him a trial," said Mrs. Trimble. 

“ You know how you admired the dress Mrs. Jones made- 
Ifor me," said Miss Trimble. 

“ How you bother me, you two!" growled papa. “ I'll 
have nothing to say to him. Don't suppose he knows more 
fibout law than either of you do." 

Mr. Trimble was quite unaware that the young man for 
‘Thom his wife and * daughter were beseeching his interest 


94 


’twixt loye and duty. 


was the same who had won his good feeling by divers 
small acts and graces during several months past. 

He stood a fortnights siege and then capitulated, with a 
surly permission to the effect that “ the fellow might call 
on him if he liked. " The fellow called, and was admitted 
to Mr. Trimble's sanctum, who, when he recognized him, 
engaged the young man almost on his own assurances. 

Jones — no longer “ Master;" but Mr. John Turnbull 
Jones — gave his present employers a month's notice, and 
entered on his new duties. 

Thus, comfortably for him, had issued that difference of 
Miss Trimble with her dress-maker on a ridiculous question 
of trimmings. Jones, the indefatigable and unfathomable, 
quickly set himself to improve the now shining hour; and 
before Arnold's arrival he was literally master of the situ- 
tion. Hs had a very inconsiderable smattering of law, yet 
at times he was a cause of bewildered (not to say alarmed) 
admiration to Mr. Trimble, for the surprisingly sharp 
things he did. Shakespeare has a line somewhere to the 
effect that a cheat may wear the semblance of a king, until 
the king is by. 

In the course of time Arnold arrived — king honest man. 

His presence, as soon as he was well installed and under- 
stood his work, spoiled the place for the vulpine Jones. 

By and by he became the inmate of Mr. Trimble's own 
room, whereas Jones was outside with the clerks. 

Arnold was a student, who gathered store of the right 
sort of knowledge every week; Jones was a trickster, who 
relied on the cunning of his wits. 

Arnold had a clear head; Jones was a mere strategist. 
Arnold was a gentleman; Mr. Jones was a genteel young 
man. 

Trimble, with a dogged good-nature underlying his 
subacid disposition, persuaded himself that he valued them 
both. 

Within a few years Arnold qualified for practice of the 
profession, while Jones remained a servant. An invaluable 
servant, though; ready, resourceful, and willing, and, as 
Trimble said sometimes, “He knows a precious deal more 
about my business than I know myself." 

Some six months before the commencement of this 
story a little incident happened which altered the course 
of Mr. Jones's life. In confidence to the junior clerk he 


'TWIXT LOYE AXD DUTY. 95 

sometimes alluded to it as “ a most unfortunate acci- 
dent.” 

It chanced that one evening, after office hours, Mr. Trim- 
ble, instead of driving home as usual, walked in the direc- 
tion of Charing Cross. Turning out of Chancery Lane 
into Fleet Street, he was seized by an importunate client 
of saloon-haunting proclivities, who insisted on having a 
chat about that case of his. In vain Trimble protested 
that he knew not the name, meaning, or business of law 
after 5 p. m. The client would take no denial, and dragged 
the unwilling and expostulating solicitor into The Octopus, 
a glittering restaurant within a hundred yards of The 
Griffin. 

Mr. Trimble was ignorant of the very existence of The 
Octopus. He hated restaurants — a teetotaler of the strict- 
est. Total abstinence, they say, accounts for unmitigated 
dryness of disposition. 

He found himself installed in a luxurious fauteuil before 
he had time to do more than protest with vehemence that 
he could not transact business in such a place;” and he 
was just protesting again, when he heard a voice that he 
knew. 

Mr. Jones, by all the verities! And Mr. Jones himself, 
in a hilarious condition, the center of a more hilarious 
group of young gentlemen, engaged in the high pastime 
of chaffing a bar-maid. 

There was an indignant exclamation from the girl in 
response to some practical impertinence of Mr. Jones's. 
That gentleman's voice, ordinarily subdued and mellifluous, 
had a ringing coarseness which jarred on the ear of his 
employer. 

There was a roar of laughter from Mr. Jones's satel- 
lites, a little scuffle, and then an angry shout from Mr. 
Jones himself, as he was repelled with a smart box on the 
ear. 

Mr. Trimble, galvanized into spasms with a sense of 
shame and disgust, felt his own ears tingle. 

As Jones approached his friend, the manager of The 
Octopus, with his complaint of “ the incivility he had 
received,” Mr. Trimble rose and pulled his client away. 

“ Come and dine with me at my own house, or anywhere 
but here. Tn such a den as this I can not and will not 
remain.” 


96 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


The next morning, before he opened his letters, Mr. 
Trimble rang his bell and inquired for Mr. J ones. 

Mr. Jones went in, innocent as a dove. 

“ Where were you at half past five last night ?" 

“ On my way home, sir." 

“Where were you at five-and-twenty minutes past five?” 

Jones saw that he had been dismasted, but his answer 
was prompt and cool. 

“ In the bar of The Octopus, sir, endeavoring to protect 
a young woman from insult. " 

“Indeed! The young woman did not seem to me to 
relish your protection. " -* 

Mr. Jones’s hand went suddenly to his ear, impelled by 
the instinct that makes a thief start when his shoulder is 
accidentally touched in a crowd. 

“ That was meant for somebody else, sir," he sneaked. 

“ It was not. I saw what I saw. You may go." 

Mr. Jones heard no more of that incident, but in less 
than a month from the time, Mr. Trimble made up his 
mind to put Arnold — now practically qualified for the jiro- 
fession — into the post of authority. 

Mr. Jones had suffered inestimable loss of status, 
and was only beginning to recover at the time when our 
story commences. 

But he knew now what sort of conduct in any man would 
lose him the favor of Mr. Trimble, and that was knowledge 
which might be turned to account — if one could but find 
the way. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A DEED OF SETTLEMENT. 

On a Saturday in the first week of March, Arnold left 
the office at eleven o’clock, by arrangement with his princi- 
pal, and started for the West by the midday train. 

He had been hoarding for this trip for three weeks past. 

The spring was just breaking, and the air was soft and 
kindly. Arnold was glad to escape, though but for a few 
hours, from the mountain of small troubles that had been 
pressing on him lately. Frequent differences with Mr. 
Trimble, though trifling enough to have passed unnoticed 
-at any other time, had depressed him, and he was puzzled 


'TWIXT LOYE AX'D DUTY. 


97 


and irritated by the curious conduct of Jones. Jones 
seemed to be always in consultation with Mr. Trimble; it 
was as though the manager and the clerk were beginning 
to change places. 

Nevertheless, when he had put the office behind him, and 
found himself carried out of town into the stillness of the 
country, his spirits rose, and he persuaded himself that all 
this disquiet was foolish and groundless, the result only of 
a little overwork. He was cheered by the persistency with 
which the lieutenant had supported his uncle's invitation 
to spend a day and night with them at home. The lieu- 
tenant in his letters seemed always anxious to see him; was 
always referring to what Arnold had done, and hoping that 
he had not suffered in any way by his generosity. 

When he was leaving the office that morning Mr. Trim- 
ble had gone out of his way to tender him a singular piece 
•of advice. 

He had obtained leave without difficulty when he made 
known that he wanted to go for a day to Three Dykes. 

“ Ah, yes— to see your uncle. Glad you're fond of going 
home, Lee," Mr. Trimble had said; and added, “My dear 
Lee, be careful to consult your uncle if you are in doubt on 
.any matter — if you have any difficulty that you can not 
surmount. " 

While the train flashed westward, and Arnold sat in the 
corner of the carriage in a brown-study, he recalled with a 
laugh this droll advice of his principal. 

Consult IJncle Paul! As well consult the parish grave- 
digger. 

It is a fortunate thing for us sometimes that we can not 
see far beyond our noses. It is well occasionally that we 
know so little what things transact themselves outside our 
immediate circle. 

In Bedford Row Mr. Jones was buzzing round Trimble 
incessantly while Arnold was out of the way. Mr. Jones 
was glad that Arnold had taken a slight holiday/ He never 
wanted holidays himself, for when he was in the receipt of 
a permanent salary life itself was a perpetual holiday. No 
one seemed busier, or did less, in the office; so, as he was 
never overworked, he never needed a change. But he did 
not grudge a holiday to his fellow-clerks, for in the absence 
of any one of them he always begged Mr. Trimble to “put 
a little more on to him. " 

4 


98 


'twixt love and duty. 


Mr. Trimble honestly believed that whatever the faults 
of his chief clerk might be, he was an energetic and indus- 
trious worker, who was rather pleased than otherwise if he 
were called on to take more than his share. 

When Arnold was away Mr. Trimble showed no inclina- 
tion to repel the willing and unctuous J ones. 

A day or two before, Jones had picked up a scrap of 
manuscript beside Arnold's desk, where it had fallen as he 
was putting on his coat. He recognized it at once as a bit 
of Arnold's literary work, and he treasured it. 

On the afternoon of the day that Arnold went to the 
country Mr. Trimble was busy; but he permitted Mr. 
Jones to ask whether this morsel of paper was “ likely to 
refer to any important matter." He “ had found it beside 
Mr. Lee's desk," just after Mr. Lee had started for the 
country, and he knew how scrupulous Mr. Lee was never-to 
devote a moment of time in Bedford Bow to a matter not 
connected with law. 

Mr. Trimble took the paper and merely scanned it 
through his glasses, then returned it, and said with a gruff 
ejaculation: 

“Ugh! Don't know. Nothing to do with my business. 
Some rubbish of his own. Dropped it by accident. Keep 
it for him. Busy. " 

Mr. Jones thanked his principal, and apologized for 
troubling him. He would put the paper in Mr. Lee's desk. 
He no doubt would be unwilling to lose it, for Mr. Jones 
knew what a great interest Mr. Lee took in his important 
literary work. 

“Eh, whose important literary work?" 

“Mr. Lee's, sir." 

“H'm! Ugh! H'm! Didn't know he had any. What 
time has he for imjDortant literary work?" 

Mr. Jones hastened to reply that he had perhaps said 
rather more than he ought to have said. He thought Mr. 
Trimble was aware how much of Mr. Lee's energies were 
given to his literary tasks. Not that he thought Mr. Lee 
allowed his private work to interfere in any way with his 
duties in the office; only it had been well known to him, 
and he fancied to Mr. Trimble also, that Mr. Lee added to 
his income by literary work. Most important, too, that he 
should do so, Mr. Jones thought: for he knew Mr. Lee's 


'TWIXT LOYE A IYD DUTY. 


99 


personal expenses were rather heavy — lived in chambers, 
for instance, which were always costly. 

At this point Mr. Trimble's better self rose within him, 
and he cut Jones short with a brief “ No business of mine, 
this: not your business either, Jones. Keep the paper for 
him. Busy, busy. " 

Mr. Jones retired with the paper in his hand; but he had 
shot that little bolt of his and was content. Jones could 
take a snubbing as well as any man. 

Mr. Trimble went home at his usual hour; Mr. Jones 
having intimated that as Mr. Lee was away he would re- 
main behind to close the office. 

The chief clerk's face wore an expression of placid hap- 
piness when he was left alone in the office that evening. 
It was his good-nature. 

ee I'm glad Lee went for a little holiday," he murmured, 
as he strolled out of one room into another with his eyes in 
all places at once. 

He strolled into Arnold's room, and Arnold's desk was 
unlocked. There was no reason why it should be locked, 
for this was a private room that Mr. Jones was invading. 

He opened the desk and explored it. There was nothing 
there except a mass of papers relating to the business of 
the office. Amongst these was the draft of a settlement to 
which Arnold had been devoting himself at intervals for a 
week past in order to meet the wishes of that eccentric and 
irritable client, Admiral Graeme. 

In overhauling the desk, Mr. Jones found that there was 
a hollow place at the back, in which a document, were one 
to drop in by accident, might be effectually lost. 

Into this oubliette, in a careless and merely tentative 
way, Mr. Jones dropped the draft of Admiral Graeme's set- 
tlement. 

“ Dear me! It has really gone down," said Mr. Jones. 
“ Who'd have thought a paper of that size would disappear 
so easily!" 

Then he put the rest of the papers in order again, and 
closed the desk, and the office. 

“ I'm glad Lee went fora little holiday," murmured Mr. 
Jones, and he went home to tea with his mother. 


100 


'twixt love and duty. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

FROM OYER THE SEAS. 

“Is the lieutenant at home,, Phoebe?” inquired Arnold. 

He had walked across from the Vicarage after breakfast 
to have a chat with his friend before church-time. 

“No, sir; he's gone to Sunday-school.” 

“ Then I can't see him until after church,” returned 
Arnold. “ I think 111 go to Sunday-school myself.” 

“It would do you good, sir. Pm sure,” rejoined Phoebe. 

The lieutenant's class was the most popular in the school. 
In all parochial matters he was a strong support to the 1 
vicar; in the parish, indeed, he had made his influence 
widely felt. Parson Paul, in whom I fear the clerical ele- 
ment was in no way dominant, found the lieutenant's help 
especially valuable at this time, when the new bishojD was 
vigorous in demanding and promoting reforms, both social 
and religious, which were calculated to shake to its center 
the prehistoric conservatism of Three Dykes. 

The lieutenant's character supplemented in many need- 
ful respects that of his friend the vicar. He had what 
may perhaps be called the Evangelical instinct. He brought 
to the work of the parish certain spiritual requirements of 
the finer sort which were wanting in the parson; and he 
labored with that sympathetic, unobtrusive, self-effacing 
earnestness which is a badge of the true missionary. 
Paul was a capital worker in his own rough hap-hazard 
fashion; the lieutenant followed after him, and gave com- 
pleteness and finish to what the vicar had but begun. To- 
gether, in a word, they made one first-rate parish priest. 
If in a few matters the vicar was somewhat of an uncler- 
ical parson, the lieutenant was certainly an unmilitary' 
soldier. By what irony of fate had the vicar failed to be* 
Major or Colonel Brunskill, and the lieutenant to be the 
Rev. Lemuel Dean? But, in fact, family reasons were at 
the bottom in both cases. * 

The lieutenant was the son of parents who, when the- 
time came for him to start in life, had been able to com- 
mand sufficient influence to obtain him a cadetship in the 
East India Company's service; while Paul Brunskill had 


'twixt love and duty. 101 

grown up with the knowledge that the little living of 
Three Dykes, of which the patronage was in the hands of 
a distant relative, would be his as soon as he had qualified 
himself at Cambridge to hold it. Thus were matters 
ordered for them both. 

Arnold went to Sunday-school, and took his place in the 
lieutenant's class, which he had sat in when a boy; and, as 
Phoebe had suggested, it did him good, for it awoke some 
pleasant memories. 

“ You are coming to lunch with us, lieutenant?" said he, 
after service. 

“ Paul has said that I am to go," replied the lieutenant; 
“ and after luncheon I have something for you which I 
think will be pleasant. " 

“What is that, lieutenant?" 

“ A long letter that I had yesterday from our exile." 

“ That will be very nice," replied Arnold. 

Accordingly, after luncheon, the lieutenant — not with- 
out an anxious glance at Paul, who was already settling 
down for his customary thirty minutes' doze — produced 
from his coat-pocket an envelope of great size and bulk. 

“ What's this?" asked Paul on the instant. ? 

“ A letter from Marian, Paul, which I had yesterday. \ I 
thought that, as Arnold returns to London this evening, tie 
would perhaps like me to read it to him." 

“ Let's have it, then," returned the vicar. “Prom the 
thickness of the envelope, it appears to be a long letter. " 

“There are — hem! — there are some fifteen or sixteen 
pages of it, Paul," replied the lieutenant. 

Parson Paul said no word, but rose up and rang the bell. 
“Make up the fire," he said to Keturah. 

“ Now, Lem, the letter," he added, when Keturah had 
well replenished the fire. 

“ It is dated," said the lieutenant, “like the previous 
letters, from the Hotel in Funchal where Marian and Mrs. 
Warren are staying," and he proceeded to read as follows: 

“Tam going to begin this while Mrs. Warren is out for 
her morning stroll. She has been in great dudgeon for a 
day and a half because the mail arrived without bringing 
her any letters, and she says her friends always do forget 
her when she goes a few hours' journey from London. Be- 
sides that, she is very angry with the cook (who has hitherto 
shown her marked attention) for sending up three dinners 


102 


WIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


in succession without one of her favorite dishes. So she 
has just started out in the direction of the Praga, forty 
miles an hour, which is thirty-nine miles faster than any 
horse goes in Funchal. By and by she will he bartering 
violently for bananas and muscatel grapes with one of the 
fruit-women, and then she will be perfectly happy. She 
takes the best possible care of me, and we have become im- 
mensely fond of one another. All the fruit-women and 
hammock-bearers and pony-boys in the town know her, 
and are delighted with her. She is perpetually angry with 
the natives, collectively and individually, and does not in 
the least mind what she says to them; but as she says it in 
English and looks so pleasant while she is saying it, they 
take it all in a complimentary way, and the men stand, 
with their foolish little caps in their hands (under a per- 
pendicular sun), and grin, and call down all kinds of bless- 
ings and prosperity on her — ’ " 

“This lady," interrupted the vicar, “ appears to be a 
very capable chaperon." 

“I think," added the lieutenant, “that Marian could 
not have found a better. " 

“Go on with the letter, lieutenant," said Arnold. 

'“‘As forme, I have just eaten my second breakfast, 
and am sitting by a window open to the ground, with the 
rsea before me, and great purple and brown mountains be- 
hind me, in the midst of a garden which is like nothing so 
much as the enchanted gardens in the fairy tales I used to 
read to Lucy long ago. You ask me what the garden 
is really like, but I am quite unable to tell you. If I 
described it as a color-dream, you wouldn’t understand 
that, would you? — at least, I should not understand it 
myself if any one used the term to me. And you 
would not get a much more distinct idea if I were 
to tell you that all the loveliest flowers in Mr. Brunskill’s 
greenhouse, and ever so many more, overspread it, as Mrs. 
Warren says, “in really wasteful profusion." When the 
Cape steamers call here, the passengers who come on shore 
for a few hours are allowed to gather as many as they 
please; but when a dozen or twenty of them have filled 
their arms with double geraniums, lilies, daturas, bougain- 
villeas, bignonias, fuchsias, myrtle, and I don’t know what 
else, you would not believe that a single blossom had been 
plucked. We have a hedge of double geraniums, and an- 


’twixt loye and duty. 103 

other of pink cacti — what do you think of that? We have 
palm-trees, camphor-trees, nettle- trees, and gum-trees, and 
can pick the oranges from their own boughs. For all 
this, I miss the music of birds in the branches and the hum 
of bees amongst the flowers. There are other drawbacks 
too in this paradise of ours. The people who have been 
here any length of time seem to grow as dull and drowsy 
as Tennyson’s lotus-eaters. Every other foreigner you 
meet has an ailment of some sort, and all the victims talk 
of their own and each other’s complaints. The doctor, 
who, with the exception of Mrs. Warren’s friend, the cook, 
is the most cheerful man in the town, spends the greater 
part of his visit to me in discussing the cases of his other 
patients, and expects me to overflow with interest when he 
tells me that Madame A. was so much better yesterday 
that she ate a whole pine-apple at dessert; or that he has 
had to tell Mr. B. this morning that the wisest thing he 
could do would be to make his will. This mania for taking 
sickness is rampant in the person of our Portugese chamber- 
maid, whose first inquiry when she wakes me in the morn- 
ing is a strictly professional one respecting my “healthy.” 
She asked me one morning, when I was feeling aggressively 
well, whether I thought I should die here or wait till I got 
back to England, and when I replied indignantly that I 
had no intention of dying here or anywhere else, she said, 
“ Me, I ting the death not so hawful had neither. Eve’y- 
hody muz die some day. Bey got to do it. Metis, I not 
dispoz of dyin’ myse’f till I get a ’uzban’ to give me proper 
berril ’ ” 

“ There is some inkling of philosophy in this chamber- 
maid,” observed the vicar. 

“ For my part, I think the young woman needs a little 
Scriptural instruction,” said the lieutenant. 

“You shall send her my last Easter sermon on Immor- 
tality,” responded Paul. “ Marian will translate it for her.” 

“ Go on with the letter, lieutenant,” said Arnold. 

“ ‘With the chamber-maid’s arrival in the morning be- 
gins the business of eating. You will all be horrified at 
what I have to say on this head, but as I am nothing if not 
a veracious chronicler, I have no course but to confess that 
we eat six meals every day of our lives. These do not in- 
clude casual fruit repasts at odd hours of the day and night. 
The chamber-maid leads off at a moderately early hour of 


104 - 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


tlie morning with tea or coffee and a roll. Breakfast proper 
is a movable feast, ready at whatever hour you come down. 
Lunch happens somewhere about the middle of the day, 
and there is tea again in the afternoon. Seven o'clock 
dinner is the principal event of the day, but I am unsophis- 
ticated enough as yet to enjoy it chiefly for the marvelously 
beautiful way in which the lights and flowers are arranged 
on the table. After dinner there is tea in the drawing- 
room. Mrs. Warren says we owe it to the proprietor of 
the hotel not to trifle - with the food, but I always feel 
ashamed of sitting down to dinner. They give us fifteen 
varieties of fish in the course of a week. Mrs. Warren knows 
all their names, and can distinguish between them, but to 
me they taste pretty much alike, and have the flavor I 
should expect to find in stewed blankets. But all the 
meals are exceedingly good, and I am in a fair way to be- 
come a gourmand — ' " 

“ I hope the child will not make too free with this su- 
perfluity of victuals," remarked the vicar. 

“ I think Marian will scarcely do that," replied the lieu- 
tenant. 

“But she may do it in a foolish, heedless way, for lack 
of rational occupation," said Paul. 

“ Marian had always a very small appetite," observed 
Arnold. “ But go on with the letter, lieutenant." 

“ ‘ Our days are passed in unmitigated idleness. There 
is something in the air that makes one feel not only that 
one does not want to work, but that one really does not 
know what work means. It takes two peasants nearly a 
quarter of an hour to say “ How do you do?" to each other. 
They stand cap in hand (the men wear ridiculous little 
skull-caps stuck on the top of their heads, with long ap- 
pendages like a rat's tail) until they have received full 
particulars respecting the health of wives, children, rela- 
tives, friends, and household animals; they then invoke a 
blessing on each other and move off. They are exceeding- 
ly polite to strangers. If you meet a solitary peasant in 
a quiet street he says: “May God prosper you!" without 
the smallest provocation. But the only active people in town 
appear fo be the hammock-bearers and the runners with the 
sleds or ponies. There are various methods of getting 
about the town and island for visitors who are too weak or 
lazy to use their legs. I am in the former category at 


'twixt love and duty. 


105 


present, and the moderate amount of sight-seeing I have 
done has been with the aid of a hammock slung on a long 
pole, with a peasant at either end. The doctor will not let 
me ride yet, and so far as progress through the town is 
concerned, that is no great hardship, for the Government 
fines you twelve shillings if you let your horse trot in the 
streets. The fine, I am told, has been instituted solely for 
the foreigners, since it would be bootless to impose a twelve- 
shilling penalty on a native. The hammocks are prefer- 
able to the carros, conveyances like four-post bedsteads 
placed on runners and drawn by oxen, for the streets are so 
steep that wheeled vehicles are out of the question. As 
Mrs. Warren says she is too old to sit on a horse, and re- 
fuses to lie in a hammock, and declares that the whole 
military force of Funchal would not compel her to enter a 
cctrro, she has no choice but to walk. This demands some 
heroism (to say nothing of the toil of climbing), for the 
roads are composed of big beach jiebbles stuck upright in 
the ground; and as there are no side-paths, pedestrians 
have to contest the streets with the oxen. Mrs. Warren's 
bearing, however, is so undisguised ly British that the oxen 
simply look at her and make for the other side of the road. 

“ ‘ As for the sleds, they are modes of travel we have not 
yet ventured upon, and I think are not likely to. The Por- 
tuguese chamber-maid is very anxious for me to try one; but 
the chamber-maid's chief delight is a funeral, and as there 
have been fewer deaths than usual this winter I think she 
must be hungry for fresh victims. 

“ ‘ The sled is, I suppose, the most breathless mode of 
travel in existence; it looks to me worse than riding on an 
avalanche. The thing itself is a little basket-work con- 
trivance, with a seat wide enough for one, two, or three 
persons. It is placed on wooden runners and accompanied 
by a pair of guides holding check-strings at each side. To 
watch one of these machines whirling down an almost per- 
pendicular mountain-road, lurching up against the stone 
walls at either side, and shooting round a bend that is al- 
most a right angle, makes you pant open-mouthed and 
hold on in instinctive sympathy to any stout object within 
reach. For those who like to travel whirlwind fashion the 
sled, no doubt, has its advantages, for you descend a road 
in five or ten minutes which it has taken an hour or more 
to toil up on horseback; but if there were no other manner 


106 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


of getting down than this 1 should not look forward with 
much satisfaction to the prospect of mountaineering. 

“‘One of our daily excitements — Mrs. Warren's and 
mine — is to watch the descent of a very fat wine-merchant 
from his villa in the hills. His doctor, no doubt, has or- 
dered him violent exercise, so he goes to his place of busi- 
ness in a sled. We look on with glasses, from the garden. 
His wife and children always come out to see him start, and 
their leave-takings are prolonged and tender. 

4 ‘ ‘ He is so fat that he fills entirely a seat meant for two 
persons, and when he is wedged in there is scarcely any room 
for his joackages. At the steepest part of the road, when 
the runners stand with one foot on the edges of the sled, 
and guide it with the other, sometimes shouting at the top 
of their voices, he clings to the sides and shuts his eyes 
tightly. We can not see the end of the road, but I suppose 
he always reaches it in safety, for we see him start at the 
same hour every morning — ' 99 

“ This appears to be a very ventursome style of travel- 
ing," said the lieutenant. “I fear this poor gentleman will 
break his neck some day . 99 

“ Of that," replied the vicar, “he must take his chance; 
being, as it seems, a very fat man. " 

“He has probably insured his life," said Arnold. “Go 
on with the letter, lieutenant." 

>“ ‘Mrs. Warren says that as the wine-merchant has af- 
forded us so much entertainment, she will feel it her duty 
one day to find out his place of business, and buy some of 
his wines. 

“ ‘ Our excursions hitherto have been of a very modest 
kind. Indeed, we have not made any expeditions at all, 
for the doctor has been very strict with me, and forbidden 
any but the shortest outings. But it is pleasure enough to 
be carried slowly through the steep streets, where the 
houses are painted white, and pink, and yellow; between 
hedges of flowers; under arches that connect rival gardens, 
golden with bignonia and purple with bougainvillea. It is 
a real Moorish town, and I have not been able yet to be- 
lieve that it is quite real, with its palm and spice and 
orange trees, and dark-haired women hanging over the bal- 
conies. 

“ ‘ In the evening we have sometimes strayed into the 
poorer quarters of the town, and watched the peasants col- 


'twixt loye and duty. 


107 


lected about their doors to hear native love-songs sung by 
a strolling musician, to the accompaniment of the national 
machete , a sort of little guitar with four strings. 

“ f But as the sanitary arrangements of Madeira, and es- 
pecially of the native quarters, are open to improvement, 
one is liable to be warned by one's nose against penetrating 
too far in search of the picturesque. For a similar reason 
it is almost impossible to walk on the beach, as the natives 
have a barbarous habit of depositing much of their refuse 
there. 

“ ‘ These things serve to remind us that our paradise is 
an earthly one, and give Mrs. Warren an opportunity of 
writing indignant letters to the governor. I don't think 
the governor is the proper person to write to, but the 
cook, who is her principal adviser in all local matters, tells 
her that she may as well write to him as to anybody else. 
The authorities don't trouble themselves at all about 
nuisances of any sort, because, as they have grown used to 
them, they refuse to believe in their existence. All appeals 
are sent to Lisbon, where there is a permanent official to 
read them, and put them in pigeon-holes — ' " 

“ If they had our bishop out there," interposed the 
vicar, “ these things would be remedied." 

“ A zealous bishop," observed the lieutenant, “is a very 
great boon." 

“ But let him keep his zeal within bounds," responded 
Paul, mindful of a recent visit to his ecclesiastical superior. 

<e Go on with the letter, lieutenant," saM Arnold. 

“ It is nearly finished," replied the lieutenant, and went 
on: 

“ ‘ I would ask you to send me some of my books, but, 
in the first place, the doctor will not allow me to touch a 
book for the present, and, in the second, I am afraid I 
should have to pay more than their value in customs dues. 
The authorities atone for their laxity in the matter of 
nuisances by their assiduity in collecting dues and taxes 
from the foreigners. But I shall make the doctor take 
off his embargo very soon, and then I shall ask you to 
forward me a small parcel. I am getting ashamed of my 
idleness, because I am so much better that there is really 
no excuse for it. They say the air here is almost as per- 
fect all the year around as it is now, but I feel as if it had 
been made on purpose for me; and I should be a shocking 


108 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


ingrate if I had not begun to mend in the very first week 
of our arrival. The nights are as delicious as the days. 
The sky is so clear that the stars seem twice as big and 
bright as at home, and we sit by the open window long 
after the sun has set, though we are only in the second week 
of February. 

“ f How long I shall be content to remain in absolute idle- 
ness I do not know. At present we are not living, but 
merely existing — existing on six meals a day. It is a most 
humiliating thought, and if it were not for fear of Mrs. 
Warren I would cut off three meals at a stroke. Please 
tell Phoebe that' though the cook claims to have served 
under three kings and an emperor, his beef-tea is not as good 
as hers. My dearest love to you, good Uncle Lemuel, and my 
kindest remembrances to Mr. Brunskill and Arnold. You 
would not believe how homesick I am sometimes. 

“ tf P.S. — Mrs. Warren has just come in with a letter 
from Mr. Reade, brought by the Cape steamer, asking 
permission to stay a few days with us on his return. ' ” 

“ Is that the end?" inquired the vicar. 

“ That is the end, Paul," replied the lieutenant. 

“ Then by your leave, Lem, Fll ring for tea, for your 
mouth must be dry. " 

“ Thank you very much, lieutenant," said Arnold; but 
he would have enjoyed the letter more if there had been no 
postscript. 

Later in the afternoon, when they were alone for a few 
moments, the lieutenant took opportunity to say to Arnold. 

“ My boy, what is the matter with you? You are not 
looking so well as when you were last here; and you seem 
notin such good spirits? What is it, Arnold?" 

“You see too much, lieutenant," laughed Arnold. 
“ There is nothing the matter." 

“You will forgive me for saying that I think there is. 
You do not look well, Arnold; and you have talked but 
little to us." 

“Well, perhaps, I am a trifle overdone, lieutenant. We 
have been very busy lately; and I have been keeping long 
hours at the office. I have more to do than I had before, 
and my responsibilities have increased. But I am all the 
better for running down here. Marian's letter is good medi- 
cine. " 

“ You have had no cause to regret what — what you did 


'twixt love and duty. 109 

for her and me, have you, Arnold?” asked the lieutenant, 
anxiously. 

“ Nothing in the world could make me regret that,” re- 
plied Arnold, emphatically. 

It is truly and generously said,” quoth the lieutenant, 
“ and I thank you, Arnold. Yet sometimes Ihave a fear 
that I did wrong in taking that great sum from you. ” 

“ What, lieutenant, and with Marian growing every day 
better?” 

“ For that I am deeply thankful, every day and hour of 
the day,” answered the lieutenant. “ But you know that is 
not all I think of.” 

“ Let it be all, then, lieutenant — at least, do not think 
of me. On the day I feel the first twinge of repentance 
for my share, in our scheme Fll drown myself in the 
Thames. ” 

“ That day, my dear Arnold, I am sure will never come. 
But I hope the day will when Marian may know all that 
you have done for her.” 

Arnold hoped so too, for he was resolved that she should 
never know unless she became his wife. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

“ SUCH A THING NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.” 

“ What did I do with that settlement of the admiraPs?” 

Arnold turned over the papers in his desk, but could not 
find the draft. He did not look very closely, and felt sure, 
though he had failed to discover it, that the deed was some- 
where there. 

“I put it in here on Saturday, just before I left,” he 
added; and then, remembering something else that he 
could work at for the present, he thought no more of the 
admiraPs settlement. He had reached town early that 
morning, after spending the night in the train, and was at 
his post at his usual hour. His mind was a good deal 
occupied with his own affairs, but good and zealous worker 
that he always was, he had come back vastly refreshed, and 
with a sturdy resolve to make light of petty ills. 

He thought that run into the country had done him good; 
but Marian's letter had been the real tonic. He had 


110 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


banished the postscript from his thoughts; dubbed himself 
a jealous fool for letting it worry him at all, and said it 
was mean of him to grudge her a little fresh society. He 
had begged the letter of the lieutenant for a day or two, 
had gone to sleep in the train with his hand in the pocket 
that held it, and had read it again on his way to the office 
that morning. It was good medicine, the knowledge that 
Marian had begun to live again, that in a few short months 
(he called them short, though he knew they would be very 
long) she would be back again, and then — ah! what then? 
The future does not lift its veil — for which, on the whole, 
we may be thankful. 

Mr. Trimble had asked for him when he had arrived at 
ten o'clock, and in his crusty fashion had shown himself 
pleased that Arnold had not overstepped his leave by so 
much as half an hour. Mr. Trimble set great store by the 
-punctuality of his clerks, which was one reason why he had 
always regarded Mr. Jones as an excellent servant. 

Mr. Jones paid a visit to Arnold in his room, and said he 
was very glad to see him back. He did not know how it 
was, but somehow the office never seemed itself without 
Lee. 

Then, with a genial air of mystery, he produced an 
envelope from his pocket, and took out of it Arnold's scrap 
of manuscript. 

“ Hallo!" exclaimed Arnold, recognizing his property, 
“ where did you get that?" 

“ Well, fact is, Lee," replied the honest friend, “Trim 
picked it up here last night, and, seeing your writing on 
it, told me to keep it for you. Of course I knew what it 
was — a bit of the literary business, eh? — but I was very 
close with Trim about it, as you may think. " 

“ I don't think that you’ need have been," answered 
Arnold, throwing the paper into his desk. 

“ Oh, it was necessary, dear boy; very necessary, I as- 
sure you. Bless you. Trim would have gone on in no end 
of a way. You know how he hates to think a man's earn- 
ing anything outside the firm. Besides, he'd have fancied 
you'd been cribbing an hour or two out of office time, 
and that would have made him rusty. He was curious 
about it, I could see. But I was close as bricks and never 
said a word." 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. Ill 

“Well, ITl talk to him about it myself,” answered 
Arnold. 

“ Not for the world, man; not for the world! Why, he 
knows nothing. What's the good of disturbing him?” 

“ If he's curious, he may as well be told. There's noth- 
ing to keep from him,'' said Arnold. “ I never write a line 
for myself till I've left the office. " 

“ J ust so; then there's no need to say a word. Trim's 
the queerest fish. If you talked to him about it without 
his asking, he’d b§ sure to think there was something you 
wanted to explain away, and then he'd be as inquisitive as 
a rat.'' 

Now, whatever motive might have prompted this advice, 
Arnold was aware that it was good. Mr. Jones knew his 
master better than he knew any book. Arnold decided to 
accept his counsel, and let the matter drop. 

“Thanks, Jones,'' he said. “Perhaps you're right. 
Though if Trimble ever says anything, he can learn what- 
ever he wants to know; and it won't trouble him.'' 

For all that, the conversation left Arnold with a slightly 
uncomfortable feeling. He had not been so much in Mr. 
Trimble's good books of late that he could afford to risk 
any further exclusion from them through a mere misun- 
derstanding. 

The morning crawled on with the ordinary humdrum 
occupations of the office. 

Presently, a good deal earlier than the hour at wliich 
clients usually called, a tremendous rat-tat at the outer 
door brought Master Jarvis from his perch to the floor with 
a bound that would have done credit to one of his red men 
on the war-path. 

“ Mr. Trimble in, hey, boy?'' 

“ Yassir. This way, sir,'' and, preceded by the office- 
boy, Admiral Graeme entered and passed through the office 
like a nor'-easter. 

“ How da do, Trimble? how da do? That ridic'lous set- 
tlement of mine — have ya got it anywhere about? I'd like 
to look at it again before ya put it on parchment. Some 
ridic'lous fresh instructions to give ya. ” 

This was audible all over the office, for the admiral habit- 
ually talked as though he were addressing a man at the 
masthead, without his speaking-trumpet, from the quar- 
ter-deck. 


112 


'twixt love and duty- 


“Where is that draft?” said Arnold; and opening his. 
desk began to search for it in earnest. 

Presently his door was rapped, and Mr. Trimble came 
in, having the admiral in tow. 

“That draft of Admiral Graeme's settlement, Lee; 
where is it? Admiral Graeme wishes do amend his in- 
structions. ” 

The admiral was a very small spare man, as brown as a 
walnut, with close-cropped gray whiskers and tiny gray 
eyes, and as upright as a mast. 

He stood stiffly in the middle of the room and waited 
for his draft. 

“ I am getting it, sir,” replied Arnold, rummaging des- 
perately amongst his papers. But in plain truth he was. 
not getting it, for it was not there. 

He grew red and redder as he turned his papers over un- 
availingly for the fifth or sixth time. Mr. Trimble stood 
behind him, outwardly calm, but beginning to rage within. 
The admiral was one of his best clients; and in any 
circumstances such an exhibition as this was calculated 
to tarnish the dignity of the firm. The admiral stood 
in the middle of the room and hummed a ballad of the 
main. 

Arnold shut his desk; the draft was not there. 

Then he unlocked his drawers; one after the other, and 
turned the contents of each upside down. . But the ad- 
miral's draft was not there. 

Mr. Trimble twisted his mouth into the painful semblance 
of a smile, and, turning to the admiral, said with a violent 
attempt at humor : 

“You see, admiral, we use extraordinary care in stowing 
away your papers.” 

“Yas, yas; seems so, Trimble, seems so,” responded the 
admiral. 

“It would never do to put them where any casual per- 
son might come across them — an office-cleaner, now, for 
instance, or any stray visitor. ” 

“ So you put them where you can't find them yourselves- 
Ha! ha! Capital, Trimble, capital!” 

Mr. Trimble winced, but made as though he appreciated 
the joke fully. 

“But come, Lee, come,” he said, “you have shown Ad- 
miral Greeme how carefully we have put his papers out of 


'twixt love and duty. 115 

sight; I dare say he would be glad if you would produce 
the draft now.” 

The admiral, who was a frequent caller at the office, had 
on many occasions been much prepossessed by Arnold, re- 
garding him as a limb of the law whose tender juices had 
not yet been hardened into wood. 

Not being on the quarter-deck and half disposed to ac- 
cept Trimble's suggestion*that this was a little comedy got 
up for his diversion, he had looked on with an air of grati- 
fied superiority, thinking that when the game had been, 
kept up long enough young parchment would duly unearth 
the document. 

“ Really, sir,” said Arnold, “ I am afraid I can not pro- 
duce it for the moment. 1 left the draft in my desk on 
Saturday, and — ” 

“ One of those casual parties,” interposed the admiral. 
“ The office-cleaner, for instance, or one of the stray 
visitors. ” 

“ Ah, just so, admiral. Very kind of you to put it in 
that way. But the truth is, I dare say, Mr. Lee has taken 
the document away to work on it at home, while he fancies 
he left it in his desk. Such a shocking fellow to work Mr. 
Lee is. There's no keeping him from it, in or out of the 
office. This is a little accident, admiral, which I am sure 
you will allow for, and favor us with another appointment 
at your convenience. Or Mr. Lee here will wait upon you, 
if you prefer it, and receive your further instructions at 
your own residence. ” 

When the admiral saw that he was to be balked of his 
draft after all, he began to fume fiercely. If Jones and not 
Arnold had been the defaulter he would have raked the of- 
fice fore and aft, and had every document in the place ex- 
humed until his own was found. 

As it was, he let off a little strong language, and finished 
with a parting thrust at Trimble. 

“This,” exclaimed the admiral, with a sweep of his arm 
and a snap of his fingers, “this is your boasted British ju- 
risprudence!'' 

And with that he went out like a sou'-wester. 

Mr. Trimble retired to his own room and rang the bell 
instantly. 

“ Mr. Lee," he said to the boy. 


114 


'twixt love and duty. 


Arnold presented himself, but for a minute or two liis 
principal took no notice of him. Then he broke out : 

“During the five-and-thirty years I have sat in this 
room such a thing as this has never happened before. 
Keep a client waiting while you fumble for his papers in 
desk and drawers, and oblige him to go away after all! 
And a client of Admiral Graeme's humor! 1 shall never 
hear the last of it. It is preposterous. I am very seri- 
ously annoyed, Lee." 

“lam not going to say that you have no cause, sir," 
began Arnold in response, when Mr. Trimble interrupted 
him testily. 

“ I should hope not indeed. I think you know better, 
Lee. Such a thing as this is utterly inexcusable. " 

Then the subacid and jealous disposition of the man 
fairly conquered him, and he exploded violently. 

Jones, as we have seen, had done his best to sow the field 
full of poison seed two days before. What he had said had 
led Mr. Trimble to suppose that Arnold was no longer giv- 
ing him his best energies. % That bit of manuscript had 
been made to play its part. Trimble had been inspired to 
think that Arnold was serving some other master better 
than he was serving him. That literary business so 
adroitly put forward by Jones had rankled in his thoughts; 
and, above all, he was angered that Arnold had steadily, 
and as he felt, obstinately refused to make him any “ con- 
fession " on the subject of the loan. 

“Our relations in the past two months," went on Mr. 
Trimble, now fairly boiling with small wrath, “have 
changed as I have never known the relations of gentlemen 
to change for any ordinary cause. I say, Lee, for any 
ordinary cause. Your extraordinary conduct with regard 
to that loan, which, in a moment of unpardonable gener- 
osity, I was induced to make you; your absent-mindedness 
in recent weeks; your inattention — for what else can I call 
it? — to professional- business (I say to professional business) 
— what am I to make of all this? It convinces me that 
there is something grave at the bottom of it all, some- 
thing that I ought to know. You had far better make a 
clean breast of it, and tell me everything. If another loan 
is needed," added Mr. Trimble, sarcastically, “it had better 
be asked for at once." 


'twixt loye and duty. 115 

“ I am much obliged to you, sir," replied Arnold, “ but 
I do not need any further help in that way." 

“ I am glad to hear it," said Trimble, dryly. 

“ As to the draft, sir, you have full cause to complain. 

I take the blame, of course, but I am convinced that it is 
missing through no fault of mine. I know that I left it in 
my desk when I went on Saturday." 

Mr. Trimble had a manner of expressing skepticism 
which was the more irritating that it was so exceedingly 
polite. There was the least perceptible flutter of the eye- 
lids, and a slight uplifting of the corners of the mouth; 
after which Mr. Trimble drew out his watch with great 
deliberation, and compared it with the clock on the mantel- 
piece. 

“ I must have that clock looked to," he said, and added, 
slowly, “there's no trusting it any longer." 

When Mr. Trimble had delivered himself thus, his 
clerks knew that further argument was useless. They 
knew, moreover, that this was his mode of expressing his 
conviction that they had designedly, or otherwise, com- 
mitted themselves to a statement of the thing which was 
not true. 

Arnold bowed, and went out. He was very indignant. 
This was the first time Mr. Trimble had shown a disposi- 
tion to cast doubt upon his word. 

The impression which this incident produced in the 
office was profound. It was the first time that Arnold had 
publicly discredited himself. 

In the evening, when the others had gone, Mr. Jones 
came in and sympathized. 

“ Queerest thing I ever heard of," said Mr. Jones. “ Bur 
let's have a look together; you must have missed a corner 
somewhere. " 

“Not a cranny," answered Arnold, rather curtly. 

“Well, but now, my dear fellow, you left it here, and 
here it must be. Hullo! what's that?" 

Arnold had just lifted the lid of his desk, to put it in 
order for the night, and Mr. Jones pointed to the hollow 
place at the back. 

“ It couldn't have got down there very well; but have you 
looked?" he asked. 

Arnold leaned over carelessly and looked down. At the 


116 'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 

bottom of the deep recess lay the draft of the admiral's set- 
tlement. 

“ Not there, I expect/' said Jones. “Eh! why, you 
look scared. Is it there?" 

“What made you think of this place?" asked Arnold, 
suddenly, and half angrily, as he turned and confronted 
Jones. “I never noticed that hollow before." 

“No more did I till this minute," rejoined the easv- 
conscienced one. “Lucky I happened to see it, w r asn't it? 
Can we fish the nasty thing up? Given us a lot of trouble 
to-day, hasn't it?" 

“ Thanks, don't trouble. I'll manage it," said Arnold; for 
Mr. Jones was preparing a noose with which to snare and 
haul up the paper. 

“Well, don't look so sour over the thing, man, now 
that you've found it. You'll be able to make it up with 
Trim to-morrow; though, to be sure. Trim has a mean 
way of remembering these tilings. Ah! you've got it. 
A plaguy thing! But I thought we'd hunt it up between 
us. Two heads always better than one, you know. W ell, 
I'll be off now; good-night, dear fellow. Tra-la-la-la-la- 
la." And Mr. Jones put on his hat and sidled out of the 
room, singing as he went. 

“ I'll keep this desk locked in future," said Arnold, put- 
ting his resolve into effect as he spoke. 

He had a disquieting feeling that he had somehow or 
other been tricked in this matter. The place where the 
paper had lain was one into which, if thrown hastily in the 
desk, it is just possible that it might have fallen. The 
probability, however, was all the other way, and Arnold 
was never careless in the disposition of his papers. But 
he was not likely to know more about it than he knew 
at present. “Jones was very quick with his suggestion," 
he said; but he did not care to conjecture further. Only 
he was put more keenly on his guard, as one who feels 
treachery from an unknown enemy. 

He locked up the office and went home. 

_ The east wind drove through the streets, nipping and 
biting you viciously, assailing you at unexpected turnings 
with a quick succession of little spiteful blows, darting out 
from by-ways, having at you everywhere, so that you had 
scarcely repelled him at one corner before you had to sum- 


'TWIXT LOYE AX'D DUTY. 117 

mon all the heat you had in your body to withstand him at 
another. 

Arnold buttoned up his coat (he had meant to get a new 
one at Christmas), and went home as fast as he could. 

He had been wondering lately for how many weeks more 
home would lie in the direction of Staple Inn. His purse 
had been growing leaner and leaner; it suffered from the 
galloping consumption, for which Falstaff said he could get 
no remedy. 

He had cut, and pared, and eked, and stinted, yet the 
money began to go faster than it came. Living at a cheaper 
rate than before, he barely met his weekly charges. His 
half-share of the expenses in chambers was already more 
than he could fairly pay. The chambers must be given 
up, and he decided to broach the matter to Bell that even- 
ing. 

But a scrawl in pencil pinned over the chimney-piece, 
requesting Arnold to “ stand the coffee on the hob," was 
an intimation that Bell was out for the night; so the sub- 
ject, like the coffee, must be kept warm till the poet's 
return. 

Arnold paced the room for an hour or more, and was in 
a fair way to think himself into a fever. At length he 
settled down to his pen, feeling that the time might be 
coming when that would be his main support. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A PROBLEM IK HIGH MATHEMATICS. 

If only something would happen. But nothing ever 
happened. If the sun would leave off shining for one half 
hour. But the sun never left off shining. If even the 
fruit supply could be interrupted for just two days, that 
one might try to forget the taste of rose apples and guavas. 
But even Mrs. Warren appeared with fresh bunches of 
grapes, a foot long and eight pounds in weight; and ever 
when one came down to breakfast there were the girls just 
arrived from the mountains with strawberries newly gath- 
ered. If the fat wine-merchant with his sled — but let him 
alone; he has sorrow enough with his sled. 

Marian sat in the garden of the hotel, a pearl in the 
heart of a glowing bouquet, and looked as disconsolate as 


118 


'twixt love and duty. 


the princess in the fairy-tale, who could not pull the sun 
out of the sky to play with. 

It was the fretfulness of joy; there was really nothing 
worse the matter with her. 

Life was too serene and golden in that enchanted island, 
where the sun is never too hot by day, nor the air too cool 
by night; where the oranges may be picked from the trees, 
and the grapes are as big as brazil-nuts; where fifteen vari- 
eties of fish (all tasting much like stewed blankets) are 
served up in the course of a week, and robust invalids eat 
whole melons after luncheon; where the sky and the sea 
are one unchanging blue; where geraniums grow twenty 
feet high, and fat and sober wine-merchants whirl to their 
counting-houses in sleds, down perpendicular mountains, 
twenty, forty, and fifty miles an hour. 

Marian sat in a low wicker chair, with a letter from 
home in her lap, which she had just finished reading. She 
plucked a rose and picked it to pieces, and was cross be- 
cause there was not breeze enough to carry the petals away. 
She gathered a crowd of young lizards about her chair, 
and fed them with biscuit, until an old bloated fellow 
frightened her by dropping plump into her lap from the 
branches of an oak, and swallowing the largest piece at a 
gulp. 

She drove away the lizards, and lay back in her chair, 
and gazed up at the bare blue sky which never a cloudlet 
dimmed ; then her eyes wandered over the vine-clad hills, 
and she counted as many villas as she could see up there, 
nestling white amid their fairy gardens of red and purple 
and gold. A gaudy butterfly went lazily sailing from 
rosebush to jasmine, from jasmine to hibiscus, lit for a 
moment on the edge of a lily, and floated over the high 
hedge of geranium. The light of a perfect sun streamed 
over this perfect garden, and scarcely a leaf was shaken in 
the warm and quivering air. But there was no hum of 
insects amongst the flowers, no trill of birds in the trees, 
almost the only sound that Marian heard was the droning 
“ Ca, ca — ooa — ca para mi, boi ” (Come — whoa — and come 
here to me, 0 oxen) of the boys guiding the bullocks in the 
carros, as they climbed the steep and slippery streets. 

“ I would give three days* dinners and one dessert for a 
shower of rain that would wet me through,” exclaimed 
Marian at length. 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


119 


“ When Gilbert comes, my dear child, he will take us up 
the mountains, and there you will have more rain than 
enough,” answered Mrs. Warren, coming up behind her 
with a basket of nectarines. 

“ Is the Cape steamer expected?” asked Marian. 

“ The cook says she can not arrive for several days yet.” 

“Does the cook know anything about it?” 

“My dear! He is the only person who does know. I 
shall not believe the steamer is in sight until I see the cook 
coming upstairs to hang out the Union Jack.” 

“ And is Mr. Reade coming by the next steamer?” 

“ If he doesn't, I have made up my mind not to receive 
him.” 

“You can scarcely receive him, dear Mrs. Warren, if he 
does not come. '' 

“ I mean when he does come, of course, dear.” 

“ Will Mr. Reade amuse us, I wonder?” 

“I shall insist upon his doing that,” replied the gentle- 
man's aunt. “ Though I don't think,” she added, “ there 
will be any need to insist. Gilbert is so good-natured. 
You did not see much of each other, I think, either on the 
steamer or during the few days he was with us?” 

“He asked after my health every morning on the steam- 
er,” answered Marian; “but the stewardess was the only 
person I was really intimate with during the voyage. ” 

“Yes, you poor child; you suffered a great deal. That 
Bay of — ” 

“ Don't recall it to me, dear Mrs. Warren. It is more 
than sufficient to remember that I have to go through it 
again. And Mr. Reade was so provokingly well the whole 
time; positively enjoying it!” 

“ Yes, dear, but he has traveled so much. He has been 
everywhere, and seen everything, and done everything.” 

“ And made a fortune besides,” said Marian. 

“ Oh, Gilbert could make a fortune every month in the 
year, I believe, if he chose to,” replied Mrs. Warren. “ But 
he says he is so tired of making money. He would never 
have taken the trouble to become one of the richest dia- 
mond-merchants if it had not been for the excitement. 
He said it was such splendid work — outdoing all the others 
fit the diggings. ” 

“I am afraid he is of a combative turn,” observed 
Marian. 


120 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


“ No," said Mrs. Warren, “I don't think he is combat- 
ive, as you call it, hut he does not like to be beaten. At 
least that is what he used to say in the old days when he 
set out to make his fortune; but I don't think he cares at 
all about it now. As for money, I think he became rich 
too quickly to set much value on it. He leaves his business 
now very much in the hands of his partner, and has in fact 
ceased to care about getting fresh riches at an age when 
most men are beginning to hunger for them. Let me see, 
how old is Gilbert now? Thirty — thirty-one — thirty-two 
— thirty-three: he must be just thirty-four. He has spent 
the last two or three years in travel, and is probably getting 
tired of it; indeed, I don't think he would have gone to ■ 
the Cape just now if I hadn't wanted him to bring us here. • 
I hope you and he will get on pleasantly, dear. " 

“ We only had two conversations before he left for the 
Cape," said Marian, “and nearly quarreled in one, and 
quarreled in the other. " 

“You surprise me, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Warren; “I 
never knew Gilbert to quarrel with any one. I don't recol- 
lect your telling me of this. " 

“ I had forgotten it long ago. I should not have re- 
membered it now but for your reference to the cook. " 

“ The cook, Marian?" 

“ Well, the cook and the steamer. I mean that I should 
not have thought of it if you had not begun to speak of 
Mr. Reade's return." 

“ And what was it all about, dear? I am shocked to 
think you and Gilbert should have quarreled so soon." 

“ Oh, it was nothing serious. We differed on a question 
of mathematics, that was all. Mr. Reade suggested that I 
had been wasting my time, and of course I did not like- 
that. Dear me! is not Madeira a dull place?" 

“You foolish, contrary child!" said Mrs. Warren. 

“ Only a week ago you thought it the dearest place in the 
world. " 

“ A week is a long while — in Madeira." 

“There, run away and write your letter home; that will 
put you in a good humor. It will be lunch-time when you 
have finished, and after lunch we will go and do some 
shopping. " 

“But there is nothing new to buy. We have got mate 


'twixt loye and duty. 


121 


and embroidery and baskets and inlaid work enough to 
stock a villa . 99 

“ A villa!” exclaimed Mrs. Warren. “Happy thought! 
We will try a change of scene. We will leave the hotel 
and take a quinta a little way up in the hills. How would 
you like that?” 

“ It would be delightful,” rather languidly. 

“Very well; that is what we will do. After lunch we 
will go and look for one. Now run away and write your 
letter. Fm going to the reading-room to look at the 
papers. ” 

And Mrs. Warren moved out of the shade of the oak, 
and put up her umbrella and marched away to the reading- 
xoom. ' 

Marian got up from her chair and went slowly toward 
the house to fetch her writing materials. 

But she found on looking into her case that she had ex- 
hausted her stock of foreign note-paper. Here was a new 
grievance, which our fretful patient made the most of. 
But presently she remembered that she had put away a re- 
serve store in one of her boxes, and unlocking it, she fetched 
out a small bundle of papers — college memoranda, scra]3S 
of exercises, and the like, with a few sheets of note-paper 
scattered amongst them. 

Rummaging in these she shook out a half-sheet of exer- 
cise-paper, covered with figures and symbols, the neatest 
imaginable. She picked up the paper and looked at it 
carelessly, and then with closer and more curious interest 
when she saw what it was. 

It was the problem in high mathematics over which she 
had broken down. It was worked out with the neatness of 
embroidery, with the exception of the last two or three 
figures, in writing which the pen had suddenly begun to 
falter. 

Marian very well remembered writing those last figures, 
and the feeling of darkness y which came over her all in a 
moment; then the getting up from her chair, the sensation 
that everything in the room was breaking up and the floor 
giving way under her feet; and after that she could recall 
nothing. 

Very singular feelings crowded in upon her as she looked 
at that almost forgotten relic of the winter. She shud- 
dered, for the memories it awoke were painful. But she 


122 


'twixt loye and duty. 


had no long time to spend in this fashion, for it was mail-day, 
and she had her letter to write. She put away the prob- 
lem, and sat down'at her desk to write to the lieutenant. She 
wrote three or four sentences, then her pen stopped, the 
brain no longer guiding it; she could not get the jn’oblem 
out of her mind. 

She finished her letter hastily, promising a long and im- 
portant one by the next mail; then took the problem out 
again and set it in front of her. 

An irresistible curiosity impelled her to try and work it 
out. She began on it at once; it was a task not more diffi- 
cult than many similar ones she had accomplished with 
ease in her early days at Cambridge. 

But she had now hardly braced her mind for the effort 
when she realized that at that moment she knew no more 
of high mathematics than an infant. She might as well 
have set herself to climb Pico Ruivo on foot as to work out 
that problem. 

She did not give it up, though, until she had completely 
tired herself, the result being a headache and worse de- 
pression. But she hid the effects of these from Mrs. War- 
ren, and exerted herself to appear more cheerful, for she 
meant to go to work again in secret, and Mrs. Warren must 
suspect nothing. 

For several days she tormented herself with that miser- 
able problem in high mathematics, to no purpose, except 
the destruction of her peace of mind, and the bringing on 
afresh of the old symptoms of mental prostration. 

Now this alarmed as well as mortified her. She had 
seemed to be making advances, both physical and mental, 
during the past few weeks, not only steadily, but rapidly; 
yet here at the very first trial of her strength, she had 
broken down as hopelessly as ever. 

Then the thought of the future rose up before her, and 
she asked herself what would happen if she were to continue 
thus helplessly and hopelessly incapacitated. 

All her past efforts had gone for nothing; everything 
must be begun again; and at present it did not appear as 
though she would ever have strength to begin. 

How long was she to loiter in this fool's paradise? — for 
Madeira was nothing better if it could not give her back 
the health she was seeking to recover. Ought she not to 
make haste to return, that further needless exjjense might 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


123 


be spared, and cast about for some commoner and bumbler 
method of supporting herself than the scheme she had set 
her heart on? 

Her ambition was to take a high place in the sphere of 
education; to be a leader in a woman’s college or mistress 
of a great school; and her career at college, so far as it had 
run, had given her reason to hope for success in such a 
province. But hope seemed vain in the midst of weakness 
like this. 

The end of it all was that Mrs. Warren had found her in 
tears one morning, with the fons et origo mdli beside her. 

“ Heyday! What’s the matter, child! Have you eaten 
a bad peach?” exclaimed the practical chaperon. 

Then she picked up the paper containing that unlucky 
problem, and looked more puzzled than ever. Mrs. 
Warren’s first thought was that this was a love-letter of an 
unpleasant nature written in cipher. ♦ 

“ Don’t cry over it, dear,” she went on. “I dare say if 
you could read it rightly you would find it a very pleasant 
letter; though why he should have taken the trouble to 
make you miserable with a scrawl of hieroglyphs like this, 
I don’t know.” 

“It — it isn’t a letter, Mrs. Warren,” said Marian, with 
a rather woful smile, as she dried her eyes. 

“ Then what in the world is it, dear? I never saw an 
nglier-looking bit of paper in my life. ” 

“ It is a — a problem in mathematics.” 

“A what, my love?” 

“ A problem in mathematics, Mrs. Warren.” 

“ And you mean to tell me that I have found you in a 
flood of tears over a problem in mathematics?” 

“ But I could not do it, Mrs. Warren.” 

“ I should think you couldn’t indeed. I should be 
ashamed of you if you could.” 

And Mrs. Warren proceeded then and there to explode 
in this fashion : “ Pooh, my dear! Pooh! I repeat, poo- 

ooh! It is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of in 
my life. All the mathematics that are, or ever were, are 
not worth two tears, let alone a’ flood. I have cried over 
rule of three myself, to be sure, but "that was fifty years 
ago, when I didn’t know any better. But mathematics at 
your age, and in a climate like this, and crying over them ! 
Pooh! Mathematics, indeed! with geraniums twenty feet 


124 


'twixt loye and duty. 


high; and pine-apples as cheap as potatoes, and two fine 
hammock-hearers ready to carry you all over the island, 
for love almost! Tear the thing up, and throw it to the 
lizards. " 

“But, Mrs. Warren," pleaded Marian, still rather tear- 
fully, “ you do not understand. All my future depends on 
these things. I could do this problem once, and then my 
future was assured to me. I knew that I should not be 
any longer a burden to Uncle Lemuel, and that I could do 
something for him in return for all that he has done for 
me. And now I can't do problems any more, and — and — 
oh! I don't know what will become of me." 

Marian finished this amid a fresh flood of tears, and sob- 
bed so violently for a moment or two that she woke a liz- 
ard dozing a few yards off, who came up blinking to know 
what was the matter. 

Mrs. W arren perceived that the trouble was more real 
than she had imagined, and hesitated a moment before she 
replied. But she was a sensible old lady, and saw at once 
that, whether or no the issues depending on the solution of 
the mathematical problem were as grave as Marian de- 
scribed, them, there were' immediate issues of a much graver 
sort likely to result from this accession of nervous excite- 
ment in the present delicate state of her young charge's 
health. 

The ebullition was evidently the outcome of much pent- 
up anxiety and suffering, for which, on the whole, it was 
well that a vent had been found at last. 

“You know, my dear," said Mrs. Warren, stroking the 
soft brown hair of the girl, “ I ought to begin by lecturing 
you severely for doing what the doctor has expressly for- 
bidden you to do. But we will come to the lecture by and by. 
By and by, too, we will talk about the future, and what may 
be dependent on your being able to do this extraordinary 
thing in mathematics. But for the present, you see, our only 
business is to have you well again, and that will never be, 
accomplished in this way. Here you have been worrying 
yourself into a brain fever almost over the very work which 
your uncle told me brought on your illness at Cambridge. 
Did not the doctor strictly forbid books or work of any 
kind? You have made yourself believe, now, that you are 
ever so much worse than you really are. If you had waited 
a few weeks I dare say you would have been quite well able 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


125 


to do this atrocious thing in mathematics — at least, if it be 
possible for any one to do it. You have been acting very 
wrongly, my dear child, and I take great blame on myself 
for not having kept a better watch over you." 

Marian took this reproof very meekly, and, indeed, felt 
rather better for it. It gave her some hope that her inca- 
pacity to work out problems in mathematics might not 
prove so hopeless or enduring as she had tormented herself 
into believing. 

She pleaded that she did not think she had been doing 
such great harm, and added that Mrs. Warren really did 
not know how necessary it was that she should get well as 
quickly as jDossible, and be able to return home and begin 
to work for herself. 

Now this was a point Mrs. Warren had been anxious ta 
approach, but delicacy of feeling had kept her from it. 

“ I should like to say something to you about that, 
dear," she began, “if I may do so without offending 
you." 

Then she went on to suggest, as tenderly and diffidently 
as possible, that if monetary considerations were a cause 
of anxiety to Marian, it would be a sincere and lasting 
pleasure to her to be allowed to remove that cause. “I 
am an old woman, and childless, and have more money 
than I know what to do with," she added at the close. 

Now, of course, Marian could not be persuaded to listen 
to any proposition of this sort, but it warmed her heart a 
thousand-fold toward the author. Kindled in this fashion, 
she grew communicative, and told all about herself and 
her life — a great deal more than she had ever told before. 
This led to confidences on Mrs. Warren's part, and in a 
little while they knew all about each other. Mrs. Warren 
had her own story — a story of early and passionate love, 
ill-requited after marriage; the sudden and somewhat 
tragic death of the husband who had neglected her; and 
a widowhood of forty years, lived for the most part in soli- 
tude. 

In that intimate talk the bond between them strength- 
ened, and friendshij) merged into affection. 

“And now, dear," said Mrs. Warren, presently, when 
Marian was in the sun again, “ I am going to talk to you 
like an old worldly woman — " 


126 


’TWIXT love and duty. 


“ No; for then you will not be talking in your true char- 
acter,” interrupted Marian. 

“ Oh, yes, I shall; you don’t know how worldly I can be 
when I choose. Well, then, it seems to me, Marian dear, 
that you are not at all the sort of girl who need trouble her 
head about mathematics — I really can scarcely say the word 
with patience — as a means to an end in life. Mathematics is 
not the vocation for a girl like you. ” 

“ Well, provide me with another, please, Mrs. Warren.” 

“ Marriage, my dear; marriage!” 

“Mathematics versus marriage? I think I prefer 
mathematics, Mrs. Warren.” 

“ Really, my dear,” said Mrs. Warren, with some de- 
gree of asperity, “ one would think it was a question be- 
tween figs and dates! You can’t make up your mind in 
that off-hand way between marriage and mathematics. ” 

“Yes; because I don’t feel the slightest hesitation. Be- 
tween figs and dates I might waver, for I’m fond of both. 
Now I am fond of mathematics, but I have not the small- 
est inclination toward marriage. I am not * dispoz of it,’ 
as Nita might say. Mathematics, if I can but get well, 
will provide me a living at once — and a good one, for I 
mean to be tremendously clever at them. Marriage might 
or might not provide me a living, and in any case no one 
has proposed to marry me, and I might pine for years with- 
out the ghost of an offer. So, you see, there really is a good 
deal to justify my choice.” 

“ My own opinion is,” said Mrs. Warren, with a show of 
being sternly emphatic, “that young ladies nowadays are 
allowed far too much freedom, both of choice and action. 
Now, if it were a hundred years ago — and I really often 
wish it were — I should prevail on Lieutenant Dean to let 
me make you my daughter; and then I should at once go 
about to find you a suitable husband, and marry and settle 
you comfortably in the course of six weeks.” 

“I have no doubt you would do all for the best, dear 
Mrs. Warren,” replied Marian, in a submissive tone, hav- 
ing no need to fear such a summary and peremptory dis- 
posal of herself and her future. 

“ And I don’t think, my dear child,” resumed the old 
lady — “ I don’t think I should have very far to seek.” 

“Eh? Oh! What do you mean, Mrs. Warren?” laughed 
Marian. 


'twixt love axd duty. 


1 27 


“Well, there is your cousin, a most proper young man, 
if eligible in other respects. ” 

“ Cousin? What cousin, Mrs. Warren?” 

<e Young Mr. Lee, of course, dear. I took a great fancy 
to him.” 

“ But he is not my cousin.” 

“ Oh-h-h!” 

“We are not related at all.” 

“ Oh-h-h-h!” 

“ What made you think we were cousins, Mrs. Warren?” 

“Well, dear, you seemed so cousinly.” 

Marian laughed, but made no further reply. 

“And I always fancied, dear,” continued Mrs. Warren, 
“that there was a tie of some sort between you; indeed, I 
thought rather a close tie. ” 

“What kind of tie, Mrs. Warren?” 

“Well, dear, forgive me, but I had an idea that you 
were engaged to one another.” 

“Engaged! Oh, no, Mrs. Warren,” with the merest sus- 
picion of a blush. “ There has never been anything of 
that sort between us. Why, Arnold and I have known 
each other since we were children.” 

“ That may be, dear; but he is not a child now.” 

“ No,” said Marian, “ but then — ” 

“ Depend upon it, my dear, he has a very strong regard 
for you. ” 

“We are both fond of each other, I think,” answered 
Marian, unhesitatingly. “Arnold is nicer than almost* 
any one I know. I think I ought to write him a letter. ” 

“Have you not written to him since leaving England?” 
asked Mrs. Warren. ’ 

“ No, we scarcely ever write to each other now. But it 
is just the same as if we did; because he writes to Uncle 
Lemuel, who sends me his letters; and I write to Uncle 
Lemuel, who sends him my letters.” 

“ So you and he are just friends, my dear?” 

“ Y-yes, Mrs. Warren; but,” she added, after a moment's 
pause, “the best of friends.” 

Mrs. Warren said no more on the subject. 

She sent Marian upstairs to rest, but not until she had 
extracted a promise from her to let problems in high math- 
ematics alone for some time to come. 

That evening the cook approached Mrs. Warren, and 


128 


'TWIXT LOYE AKD DUTY. 

lifting his finger, whispered in her ear, “ Mees Varren, 
miladi. Lissen of w'at I say. Ze Kep stimmair! He Till 
come at Madeira to-morrow. ” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE CAPE STEAMER. 

The cook was a prophet who never lied. The Cape 
steamer anchored in the Funchal Roads the next morning. 

All the visitors at the hotel who were to leave by it for 
England were desperately excited. For a week past they 
had been ready packed, and had not slept a wink, lest the 
steamer should come like a thief in the night, and go off 
before day-break, without taking them on board. 

Some of them had lost weight through fright lest there 
should be no room in the vessel; for, when life stagnates at 
the hotel it is necessary to promote a canard or two respect- 
ing the Cape steamer; and a favorite one is that all the 
berths have been taken at the Cape a month ago. 

At breakfast-time, however, there was the “ Balmoral 
Castle ” safely anchored in the roads waiting for the Portu- 
guese “ healthy 99 officer to go on board and inspect the bill 
of health. 

“ I told you the cook would be right, dear,” said Mrs. 
Warren, who was all ready to start for the beach when 
Marian came down-stairs. 

“ But have you breakfasted?” was Marianas reply. 

“ An hour ago,” said Mrs. Warren. “ How, here comes 
your coffee. You must make haste; your hammock is 
. waiting outside.” 

■“ Don't you think Mr. Reade would rather you were there 
alone to receive him?” 

“ My dear child!” 

“It is two whole months since you parted, remember. 
You had better meet him alone, and leave me to finish my 
breakfast. I will be ready for you in the garden when you 
have got over the worst of it. ” 

You are the most provokingly ridiculous child in 
Madeira!” said Mrs. Warren. “Eat your breakfast quick- 
ly and come with me. It would be most unkind to Gilbert 
if *you stayed behind. Why, he may have been dreadfully 
seasick, poor fellow PJ 


TWIXT LOVE AOT DUTY, 


129 


“ In that case I am sure lie would not wish me to be 
present at his landing. But you said he was never sea- 
sick, Mrs. Warren.” 

“ Well, then, he is homesick, or something. Now don’t 
tease, but make haste with your breakfast and let us be 
off.” 

They got off in due time, and took their way through 
the steep streets, Marian swinging in her hammock, Mrs. 
W arren marching like a grenadier beside her. 

The lazy little town always looked its best in the fresh 
morning sun, now pouring its white light on roof and bal- 
cony, kindling the dark pines on the mountain sides, and 
gilding the smooth, wide waters of the sea. 

The people were all abroad in the streets; they had to 
move aside for carros , with the bullock-boys droning their 
“ Ca, ca — ooa — ca para mi, boi!” They met prim little 
soldiers, like toy-men, jingling their spurs impressively; 
the fat friar of St. Francis on his round to collect pro- 
visions, which he pays for with his blessing; peasant- 
women in their eternal red and blue capes and necklaces; 
and the men in their white Turkish trousers; olive-skinned 
urchins flying light in the matter of clothing, and much in 
want of a Board School. 

And the dreamy pleasure of the soft, seductive air, 
sweet as the air of the Hesperides, which steals into the 
senses and lulls but not oppresses; and the smell of flowers, 
and the glow of them, and their never-ending wealth, 
spreading along the walls and twining about the roots of 
trees, and creeping up the sides of houses and over the 
hanging balconies. 

“ Get on with you, my men,” said Mrs. Warren to the 
hammock-bearers — who, however, are the only active peo- 
ple in the island. “ Don’t be afraid of leaving me behind; 
I can go quite as fast as you. ” 

And the men grinned and pulled the tails of their fool- 
ish little caps, and set off at a pace which taxed the sinews 
as well as the dignity of Mrs. Warren. 

“It would never do for us not to be there when he 
lands, would it?” she said to Marian. 

“ If he has been seasick perhaps he would rather land 
unobserved,” replied the young lady. 

“ But he has not been seasick, dear. How can you say 

5 


130 


'TWIXT LOVE AOT DUTY. 


such a tiling! You know quite well that he is never sea- 
sick. ” 

“ Then we will get on as fast as you like, Mrs. Warren/ 

The beach was crowded, and very lively the beach was 
when passengers were to be landed from a steamer. 

The quay is flanked at one end by the yellow house of 
the governor — the functionary with whom Mrs. Warren 
corresponded on sanitary subjects — from which a noble 
avenue of planes and sycamores leads up into the town; 
and at the other end by the shady Pri^a, and that old red 
fort peaked with pepper-box turrets, which one good push 
would send into the sea. 

The beach and the bay were thronged with boats, green, 
red, yellow, and black, with a streak of white or orange at 
the top, and the keel rising as high as a man’s head above 
the gunwale. In the offing you have the fine violet out- 
lines of the Desertas. 

The surf roars ceaselessly, but the roaring of the surf is 
nothing to the screaming of the boatmen and the drivers of 
the ox-teams. They scream against each other, and when 
it comes to screaming there is not a cent to choose between 
them. 

The “healthy” officer had paid his visit to the steamer, 
inspected the bill of health and found it clean, and was re- 
turning to the shore in his gig. 

Then the passengers began to scramble for the boats 
which swarmed around the vessel. 

“ Can you see him?” asked Mrs. Warren. 

“ No, I don’t think I can; can you?” 

“ Is not that he?” 

“ Do you mean that man out there on the bowsprit?” 

“ No, dear, no; what should he be doing on the bow- 
sprit? I mean the tall man leaning over the side. Oh, 
no; that’s one of the sailors. Dear me! I hope he is 
there somewhere. Suppose he should not have come after 
all?” 

“ Perhaps they have forgotten to wake him, and he is 
still in his berth, and will be carried on to England!” said 
Marian. 

“My dear, how can you! Oh, he is coming! Look, he 
is in the first boat! That is his back, I am sure; I should 
know Gilbert’s back anywhere.” 

Certainly it was a very fine back — a strong one and a 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


131 


straight one — and the head superbly set upon the shoulders. 
By and by he turned round to look at the shore, and then 
there was no doubt that it was Gilbert. 

He saw the ladies, and lifted his hat, and a pleased 
smile spread ttself slowly over his handsome, quiet features. 

The boat grounded on the beach, and the ox-team 
dragged it over the pebbles to the landing-place. Gilbert 
made his way at once to Mrs. Warren and Marian, and his 
aunt held out both her hands and kissed him heartily. 

“ You dear boy, how glad I am to see you! And you 
look so big and brown and handsome, and I was afraid 
that you werq not coming after all!” 

“ I could hardly get to shore before the boat. Aunt 
Susan. ” 

“ No, dear, of course not ; but I couldn’t even see you, 
and Marian said that perhaps you were still asleep in yOur 
berth. ” 

“Did Miss Dean say that?” asked Gilbert, turning with 
twinkling eyes to Marian. “Come, now, I will he bold 
to say that T was up and dressed two hours before Miss 
Dean was awake.” 

“It is very possible/” answered Marian, “for I had 
scarcely finished my breakfast when Mrs. Warren brought 
me down here.” 

“Aunt Susan,” said Gilbert, “you ought not to have 
interrupted Miss Dean at her breakfast. Let us make 
haste back, that she may finish it. ” 

“Mrs. Warren,” said Marian, as Gilbert turned to give 
instructions about his luggage, “ do not forget to remind 
me, if you please, that I owe Mr. Keade a grudge.” 

A few minutes later they were all returning to the hotel, 
Mrs. Warren with her hand on her nephew’s arm, and Gil- 
bert walking beside Marian’s hammock. 

“And now that we have got you,” said Mrs. Warren, 
“ how long do you mean to stay with us? But I shall set- 
tle that myself. I don’t intend to let you sail away to one 
of the Poles next week, or the week after, you may be 
sure. ” 

“No,” replied Gilbert, “ I shall do no more sailing. 
This is to be my last voyage. I made up my mind three 
days ago that I had played the Wandering Jew long enough. 

I am tired of it, and mean to vegetate at home for the rest 
of my days.” 


132 


’twixt love and duty. 


“ I am very glad to hear it,” said his aunt. 

“Life has wearied you, Mr. Reade?” said Marian, in a 
lazy tone. 

“ On the contrary,” he answered, quickly, and looking- 
straight into her eyes as he spoke, “ I am only just begin- 
ning to enjoy it.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

NOSSA SENHORA DO MONTE. 

Late in the evening, when all the house was abed, Gil- 
bert strolled in* the scented garden of the hotel, enjoying 
the air and a cigar. 

It was a mere freak that had brought him back to Ma- 
deira, but gentlemen in the position ot Mr. Gilbert Reade 
can afford to indulge themselves in this fashion. 

The common phrase “ a man of the world ” describes 
him better than some to whom it is applied. There were 
few countries of the world that he had not visited, and in 
most he had sojourned long enough to gain something 
more than a superficial notion of them and their peoples. 
In all his travels he had been the student not less than the 
man of business, and could chat to you in familiar style 
about any far-off interest in almost any quarter of the 
globe. He could furnish you with introductions in almost 
every capital of note. There was no sport of which he 
could not discourse with its votaries; no pleasure of New r 
York, Vienna, or Constantinople which he had not seen — 
but as an outsider only. 

He had never had a romance in his life; his tempera- 
ment was not one that moved him to seek excitement in 
that form. “Adventures are to the adventurous.” Ro- 
mances are to the romantic. 

A quiet man, keen, self-respecting, and endowed with a 
kind of genius for finding out the nature of things; yet 
there was no description of society, good, bad, or indiffer- 
ent, in which he was not at home. This was the philosophy 
which made him such a hero to his aunt. All men pride 
themselves on their superior knowledge as compared with 
the other sex — though it is a species of pride which is be- 
coming every day more liable to falls — but this was a man 
who did know. 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. * 133 

Thrown Yery early on his own resources, he had amassed 
h fortune in the diamond-fields with a rapidity which was 
owing in part to good-fortune, but chiefly to his own ex- 
traordinary energy, fine judgment, and never-failing clear- 
ness and coolness of head. By the time the excitement, 
the love of the fierce adventurous life in those rough wild 
regions, had worn themselves out, he found himself a rich 
man, who might have set down in idleness for the remain- 
der of his days. But he had cast his bread on other waters 
from time to time, when the mood took him, and he saw 
his opportunity; and it had always returned to him a 
hundred-fold. Latterly he had left the chief control of his 
affairs in the hands of a partner, and had been a globe- 
trotter for amusement and instruction. What he was in 
business, that he was also in his social existence. He could 
be good company without an effort, and he never appeared 
to exert himself in any situation. His genius and re- 
source did not fail him in emergencies, whatever they might 
be. 

Gilbert finished his cigar and went to bed, having been 
chiefly occupied during his stroll in asking himself what in 
the world had brought him to Madeira again. 

The aspect of life changed for Mrs. Warren and Marian 
under the influence of this good-humored man of the world. 
He knew the island from end to end, what were the things 
to be seen and done, and the best and most agreeable modes 
of getting to all those places which no one can save his 
credit without visiting. He was always planning expedi- 
tions against the time when Marian should be ready for 
amusement on a serious scale. 

The time drew nearer every day; for Marian, now that 
she had resolutely put problems in high mathematics be- 
hind her, quickly got back the strength and serenity she 
had lost during those foolish days; and the doctor said that 
if she continued to mend at this pace he would give her 
leave to discard her hammock for a saddle in a week or 
two. So Gilbert was always on the lookout for a proper 
lady’s horse. 

Then there was the villa to choose. Mrs. Warren had 
told her nephew on the morning after his arrival that it 
was her intention to take a quinta in the hills for Marian 
and herself. Gilbert had acquiesced—- acquiescence was a 


134 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


habit of his — and promised his assistance. But he did not 
approve of the quinta. 

At the hotel they were altogether; his room was near 
theirs, they were under one roof. This was pleasant and 
convenient. Now if the ladies took their departure up the 
hills, and settled in a quinta (did I say that a villa was a 
quinta?) of their own, Gilbert could not very well accom- 
pany them. They would thus be separated by a distance 
of at least a mile, and a perpendicular mile. This would 
be unpleasant and inconvenient. Gilbert therefore openly 
acquiesced in the scheme, but secretly resolved that it must 
not be fulfilled. 

“ I think 1 know every suitable quintain the place,” said 
Gilbert. “ I’m glad you have not yet made your choice. ” 

“ Thank you, dear,” replied his aunt. “I knew you 
would be able to advise us. ” 

So they climbed the hills, and prospected, in this direc- 
tion and in that, but never a desirable villa could be found. 
Gilbert, in his capacity of guide and counselor, was satisfied 
with none of them. 

This one was pretty enough, but not worth the money. 
That one, though admirable in every other respect, was 
not sufficiently accessible. A third was badly built, and 
another was too far from the town. 

“Mr. Reade is very hard to please,” observed Marian. 

“You see, dear, he knows exactly what we want,” replied 
Mrs. Warren. 

They spent two days perambulating the hills, and did 
not discover Gilbert’s ideal quinta. 

“Have you thought about the mosquitoes?” asked Gil- 
bert, in a casual tone when they were setting out on the 
third day’s search. 

“We think a great deal about them at night,” said 
Marian. 

“ They are terrible in the hotel,” said Mrs. Warren. 

“ They are worse in the hills,” said Gilbert. 

“If I thought that,” observed Mrs. Warren, “ I should 
be almost inclined to give up the quinta. What do you 
say, Marian?” 

“The mosquitoes are not to be trifled with,” replied 
Marian. 

“ It is impossible to trifle with them in the hills,” said 
Gilbert. 


TWIXT LOYE AKD DUTY. 


135 


“Do you know, dear, I almost believe we should act 
more prudently in staying at the hotel,” said Mrs. Warren. 

“And the getting up and down,” said Gilbert; “have 
you thought about that?” 

“ Oh, that would be nothing at all,” remarked Marian. 

“ I could not allow you to risk your life in a sled, dear,” 
said Mrs. Warren, emphatically. 

“We could use ponies,” said Marian. 

“ You would have a man hanging on to the tail the whole 
way down,” said Gilbert. 

“I should not mind that, if the pony did not,” answered 
Marian. 

“ But the man screams the whole time that he is hanging 
on to the tail,” said Gilbert. 

“He shall not scream,” said Marian. 

“He must scream,” said Gilbert. “He is paid to 
scream. ” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Warren, “Gilbert is right. We 
will not take a quinta. We shall do much better where we 
are. ” 

So the villa was abandoned, and the man who knew his 
mind had his way. Mrs. Warren decided to remain in the 
hotel as long as they stayed in Madeira. 

Marian had as yet done almost no sight-seeing whatever, 
and one evening while they were sitting in the veranda 
Gilbert said, 

“ You have not even seen the Mount Church, Miss 
Dean. ” 

“ I am quite ready to see it,” she replied. 

“Then we will go up there to-morrow,” said Gilbert. 
“It is not worth the name of an excursion, but you 
really ought not to go anywhere else until you have been 
there. ” 

“We will go up after breakfast,” said Mrs. Warren. 

“ I will have the hammocks round in good time, for I sup- 
pose if we are really to begin sight-seeing I shall have to 
take to one myself. 

“ I am afraid there is no help for it. Aunt Susan,” an- 
swered Gilbert; “and I am certain you enjoyed your ham- 
mock yesterday. ” 

“No, I didn't enjoy it a bit; it is the laziest way of travel- 
ing I know. But I am a very good, self-sacrificing woman, 
and I mean to appear as though I liked it very much. ” 


136 


’twixt loye aot dutt. 


“ As virtue is its own reward, we will not applaud your 
resolution, Aunt Susan,” said Gilbert. 

“ You shall have as much applause as you like from me, 
Mrs. Warren,” said Marian. 

“ And you will applaud me. Miss Dean, if I also consign 
myself to a hammock?” 

“That would be a very different matter,” answered 
Marian. “ But I hope you will do no Such thing.” 

“ I will go any fashion you please. Miss Dean.” 

“ The peasants, when they are very devout, climb to the 
church on their hands and knees,” said she. 

“Well,” answered Gilbert, “you shall make choice 
for me between gallantry and respect for my own church. ” 

“ Perhaps, on the whole, you had better ride on a quiet 
horse,” said Marian. 

Early the next morning they started on this miniature 
expedition, which was quite an event for Marian, who 
looked so charming as she came out of the hotel, in a soft 
loose dress and wrapper and wide straw hat with some 
newly gathered flowers as its only ornament, that her ham- 
mock-bearers blessed her on the spot. They were two 
handsome young fellows, lithe as leopards, and, in their 
white trousers and shirts open at the throat, made a very 
respectable escort for the comely English girl. 

As for the hammocks, they did not in any way merit the 
censure of Mrs. Warren, for there is no pleasanter method 
of travel in existence. Just a trifle too luxurious, perhaps, 
or would be anywhere out of Madeira. Mrs. Warren had 
already begun to alter her opinion of these conveyances, 
but she would not allow it, and got in and out of her ham- 
mock two or three times before she could be persuaded to 
settle. 

“ There,” said Gilbert, when she had at last allowed the 
bearers to lift her on their shoulders. “You look charm- 
ing, Aunt Susan, and more entirely comfortable than I 
ever saw you before. By and by, when yqu have grown 
audacious, you will be as eager as Miss Dean for a sled.” 

Mrs. Warren merely closed her eyes and shuddered, and 
blindly motioned the men to go on. 

The air blew soft and cool from the sea, carrying on its 
wings the scent of a hundred flowers. They grew with the 
luxuriance of weeds wherever the slenderest hold could be 
found — hoya, stephanotis, jasmine, scarlet hibiscus, alia- 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


137 


vnandas with their great yellow trumpets, orchids, and 
those wondrous roses with pale-colored petals closing round 
a blood-red heart. 

Up slowly through the steep and winding streets, and 
then out of the town, and higher and always higher 
amongst the wooded hills, a paradise of ferns and tumbling 
waters. 

Marian had some new exclamation of delight for every 
turn in the ascent; each fresh view they had of the bay 
beneath and the still or moving scenes around, above, and 
beyond them was lovelier than the last. 

“Oh, that I should ever have abused Madeira!” ex- 
claimed Marian. “What penance can I do for my sin?” 

“ The peasants when they are very devout,” answered 
Gilbert, “ climb to the church on their hands and knees. ” 
“ That is their alfair,” replied Marian. 

“ Fm told it has a very chastening effect if one wants a 
first-rate penance. ” 

“ No doubt. I felt sure you knew the nature of the 
penance, Mr. Reade, when you declined my suggestion. ” 

“ I shall forbid you two to talk to each other,” said Mrs. 
Warren, “ if you can not do so without sparring. Pray 
behave yourselves, for I want to be able to give the whole 
of my attention to these hammock-men. Gilbert, you have 
brought weapons with you, I hope?” 

“How stupid of me!” exclaimed Gilbert, “to think I 
should have left my double-barreled gun, my revolver, and 
my bowie-knife at the hotel!” 

“ I am sure you ought to have a defensive arm of some 
sort, Gilbert. Look at my front bearer; he is continually 
feeling in his pocket. Could you not spring on him gently 
from behind and search him? I feel siire he is getting his 
knife in readiness.” 

“ I think he is only counting his money,” said Marian. 

“ Miss Dean is right, as she always is,” rejoined Gilbert. 

“ Your front bearer. Aunt Susan, has honesty written on 
every line of his face. I know him well. He has a wife 
and nine children; the confessor christened the youngest 
yesterday with ten names, including his own and those of 
the king, the governor, and the patron saint.” 

“ I wish he would keep his hand out of his pocket,” said 
Mrs. Warren. 

The dry weather had preserved the road in excellent 


138 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


condition, and in due time the stout bearers, none the worse 
for their climb, set our friends down at the church. Marian 
was out of her hammock in a twinkling; eager, animated, 
delighted; could not say enough in praise of anything; let 
Gilbert lead her here and there, from point to point; Mrs. 
Warren following, with an eye ever on the father of nine 
children, whom she suspected none the less that he had 
flung himself down in the shade with his cap over his eyes. 

“1 should not be surprised if he were meditating a 
spring," said Mrs. Warren to herself. 

The church of Our Lady of the Mount — Hossa Senhora 
do Monte — crowns with solid grandeur a hill commanding 
the harbor, two thousand feet high. Its white towers are 
seen from every part of Funchal; its great black border is 
visible far out at sea. 

FTossa Senhora is held in huge veneration by the island- 
ers; they attribute an unusually fine crop of miracles to 
her. 

“ Let us go inside," said Marian, when they had taken 
good stock of the exterior. 

“ You had better remain without," said Gilbert. “ The 
outside is the best of it." 

“ I wish to go inside," said Marian. 

“ Let us go inside, then," said Gilbert. 

They went in. It was cool, and dim, and quiet, and a 
sound of soft music floated from one of the side chapels, 
where some celebration was in progress. But, as Gilbert 
had said, the outside was the best. The tawdry Virgin 
was unlovely, and one felt a sense of annoyance at the 
cheapness and poverty of the ornament. 

They left the church, and went out into the sun again. 

“ I think they might make something better than that 
of their church," observed Marian. 

“ Our Ritualistic friends at home could give them a hint 
or two, I fancy," replied Gilbert. 

“ Gilbert," said Mrs. Warren, austerely, tc I beg that you 
will not speak to me of the Ritualists. " 

“ My dear aunt, I ask your pardon. I rarely even think 
of them." 

“ The church ought to have a legend,” said Marian. 

“ It has many," said Gilbert. 

“ Can you not tell us one of them?" 

“If it is anything preposterous, Gilbert, I think that, 


WIXT LOVE AKD DUTY. 


139 


for the credit of the poor people themselves, you ought not 
to relate it," observed Mrs. Warren. 

“ There is the miracle of the wheat-ship," said Gilbert. 
“It is preposterous or not, according to the point of view. 
The people take a just pride in it, as one of the most con- 
spicuous of their Lady's performances." 

“Tell us about the wheat-ship, please, Mr. Reade," said 
Marian. 

“With Aunt Susan's leave, then, it is this: The island 
was threatened with famine — a worse famine than Pharaoh's 
—and they had no Joseph in Madeira. The people began 
to be very hungry, and did not know where to look for > 
food. Then it occurred to some one to organize a general 
procession of the inhabitants, to repair to the Mount, and 
explain the situation to Nossa Senhora. This was done. 
The whole town came up here — " 

“ In hammocks?" asked Mrs. Warren. 

“ Oh, no. Aunt Susan, that would never have done. 
The Senhora would have mistaken her devotees for com- 
mon tourists. No; they came up in a respectful manner 
on their hands and knees, and prostrated themselves at the 
altar. " 

“But they could not all have got into the church," said 
Marian. 

“ The observation is just. Miss Dean, and does honor to 
your mathematical attainments. They did not go in all at 
once; they went in detachments." 

“And what was the result?" inquired Mrs. Warren. 

“ The next day a ship, heavy with wheat, arrived in the 
harbor; and the image of the Virgin in the church was 
found dripping with moisture. People with exceptionally 
good sight saw the Madonna swimming in advance of the 
ship, and towing her in with a cable. That is the miracle 
of the wheat-ship." 

“ It is entirely preposterous!" said Mrs. Warren. 

“I think it is a most interesting legend," said Marian. 
“Why did the Madonna tow the ship with a cable?" 

“I suppose there was no wind blowing," replied Gilbert. 

“I think, Gilbert," remarked his aunt, “that lest you 
should be tempted to tell us any more legends of the place, 
we will go home. Marian has finished the sandwiches, 
and looks as though she would be quite ready for a proper 
meal at the hotel, " 


140 'twixt love and duty. 

“Yes,” said Marian; “I think more highly of seven 
o'clock dinner at this moment than I ever did before. ” 

The escort wanted the party to return from the Mount 
in sleds. Marian, who would have screamed aloud at a 
sled three weeks ago, looked quite eager at this proposal, 
and declared herself ready. But Mrs. W arren would not 
hear of it. 

“No, my dear,” she insisted, “ it is out of the question; 
I will not permit it. In a week or two, perhaps, when you 
have had more exercise and your nerves are stronger, you 
may try a sled. ” 

So the hammocks were brought up again, and they de- 
scended slowly and easily to the town, through hedges of 
flowers, under spice-trees and palms, and by the edges of 
perilous precipices; but the feet of the hammock-bearers 
never stumbled. 

Presently Marian glanced down toward where the old 
Loo Rock rose sheer out of the waters of the bay. 

“One day I must go down to the sea and sketch the 
Loo,” she said. 

“ You will need a protector, I am afraid,” observed Gil- 
bert. 

“Why so?” she asked. 

“ The authorities are jealous of any one sketching theii 
fortifications. They carried a friend of mine to the guard- 
house one day for sketching the Loo and its fortifications. ” 

“ In that case I must certainly go,” said Marian. 

“And I must certainly ask permission to accompany 
you. ” 

“ You think that they will take me to their guard-house? 
But, after all, I don't know whether the rock is worth 
sketching; what do you say, Mr. Reade?” 

She liked to baffle him in this way; but did it so sweetly, 
and smiled so pleasantly in doing it, that one was almost- 
gratified. 

“ Miss Dean is a very remarkable girl,” said Gilbert, 
while he held his nightly converse with himself on the bal- 
cony outside his window. Then he asked himself, for the 
hundred-and-twentieth time, what had brought him to 
Madeira again. It was almost fitting that he found an 
answer to this question. 


'TWIST LOVE AND DUTY. 


141 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

ROMANCE. 

It was the middle of May. In London they had the 
“ churlish chiding"’ of the east wind, and noses tending to 
blue. In Funchal the lizards basked and blinked in a tire- 
less sun, the white walls of the town were warm to the 
touch, and flower and leaf were rocked in the golden am- 
bient air. 

A thing had happened which on the whole was inevit- 
able. Gilbert had fallen in love with Marian. 

He knew now what it was that had brought him back 
to Madeira. He also knew what it was that chained him 
there. 

It had become his Calypso-realm, in which, like another 
Ulysses, he lay spell-bound. It had become his Eden, and 
Marian was its Eve. 

He thought to keep his secret; and from Marian he 
seemed to keep it well enough. Not so well, however, 
from his aunt. 

Mrs. Warren saw and was well satisfied. From what 
Marian had told her the night before Gilbert's arrival she 
had little doubt that the girl was heart-whole — at any rate, 
that Gilbert had no rival. An excellent prospect, therefore, 
at once presented itself to her mind. Marian should fall in 
love with Gilbert, as Gilbert had fallen in love with Marian. 
Nothing could be more entirely satisfactory. The good- 
hearted old lady loved both of them. From a lad up her 
nephew had been her hero. She had stood friend to him 
at a time when, turned adrift from his own home, he had 
no other friend in the world. She had seen of what sound 
stuff he was made, before he well knew it himself; and as 
he had never disappointed her hopes, so he had never for- 
gotten his early debt to her. As true as Gilbert ” was a 
private maxim of hers, which she never spoke aloud. 

Marian she had learned to love dearly, as in some meas- 
ure we have seen. It had vexed her soul this month past 
to think that Marian should be hurrying to get well only 
that she might go back “ to drudge at those abominable 
mathematics. “I declare to you, my dear, I have a tend- 


142 


'twixt loye and duty. 


ency to dyspepsia as often as I think of it,” she said one 
day. 

Now, then, if Marian would prove a sensible girl, and 
love Gilbert, problems in high mathematics might be con- 
signed forthwith to the rather extensive limbo of things 
which Mrs. Warren held that no well-bred nice young lady 
should know anything about. For the present, however, 
she said nothing to anybody. 

Gilbert in love with Marian, and priding himself that no 
one was the wiser; Mrs. Warren very much the wiser, but 
diligently keeping her counsel; Marian not a hit the wiser, 
and having therefore no counsel to keep: this was the situ- 
ation. 

This, however, was a sort of deadlock, and at the very 
outset. No drama can get along in this fashion. 

Since Gilbert would not speak to Mrs. Warren, Mrs. 
Warren spoke to Gilbert. He was glad when she had 
done this, for he learned that he had a firm ally in his 
aunt. 

“You were certain to be taken sooner or later, dear,” 
she said, soothingly. “Only I was afraid it might be 
later.” 

“I am afraid it’s late enough already,” replied Gilbert. 

“ That remains to be seen,” said Mrs. Warren. 

Mrs. Warren was now set forth on a pursuit which was 
particularly congenial to her. She was by some means or 
other to grapple these two young people together with hooks 
of love. 

She had had no great experience as a match-maker, hut 
who in her situation is willing to be persuaded that ex- 
perience is a necessary factor of success in these undertak- 
ings? 

“My own opinion is that you were made for one an- 
other; and that being the case, it will be a pity if I can not 
bring you together,” she said to her nephew,* who replied 
in his quiet way that his aunt was more confident of suc- 
cess than he was. 

“My dear boy,” she replied, “you must be confident 
too. You were always confident in business, you know, 
and you always succeeded.” 

Gilbert smiled, but forbore to say that he did not think 
the analogy a perfect one. ■ » 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


143 


Plot number two, with Marian as prospective victim, was 
now well afoot. 

But another was visible on the surface. Gilbert did not 
wear his heart on his sleeve at any time: he hid it closer 
than ever now. 

The days wore on, sunnily, lazily, charmingly. It was 
a part of the pleasure of their life in this serene retreat 
that it had no settled plan or order. Sometimes an expe- 
dition was arranged overnight; sometimes, without any 
definite object in view, they started out after breakfast and 
spent hours wandering slowly through flowering lanes, 
over soft sward paved with blossoms, along the edges of 
high cliffs with the deep blue sea beneath; resting as it 
pleased them under great tent-like trees, or in darkened 
glades, or at a rude bridge arching some narrow rushing 
stream. Turn where you will; some fresh loveliness un- 
folds itself, for the scene changes endlessly; kaleidoscopic 
in its variety of charm. Here it is soft and tender as the 
heart of England; here again, great, grand, and terrible, 
with tower on tower of rock, some of the highest cleft from 
summit to base by gorges of black and hideous depth, 
down which one might be falling, like Mulciber, “from 
noon to dewy eve.” 

Sometimes the day was idled in the ruddy garden of the 
hotel: Mrs. Warren, who was impatient of protracted rest 
in any situation, flitting continuously between the house 
and the grounds; Marian reclining in a wide wicker-chair; 
Gilbert outstretched on the grass beside her, in luxurious 
contentment. 

On such a day as this the English post had arrived, and 
they were all occupied with their letters. 

Mrs. Warren received a letter of domestic news from her 
parlor-maid every week, the reading of which was a length- 
ened process, provocative of various small ebullitions, for 
the maid wrote an original hand and spelled on principles 
of her own. 

“Shall I try and make it out for you, Mrs. Warren?” 
asked Marian. 

“You couldnT, dear; it is much worse than your mathe- 
matics, and it seems an interesting letter too. I'll go 
in-doors and get my magnifying-glass.” 

Gilbert, who kept his correspondence within the narrow- 


144 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


esfc limits, had only two letters; one of them he read, the 
other lay unopened on the grass where he had thrown it. 

Marian had finished the first reading of her letters from 
the lieutenant, and was beginning it again, when her eye 
fell on the sealed envelope at Gilbert's feet. She called 
his attention to it, for he had thrown himself back on the 
grass and seemed to have overlooked it. 

“ You have forgotten one of your letters, Mr. Reade," 
she said. 

“ That?" answered Gilbert, raising himself on his elbow 
and looking with a great lack of interest at the unopened 
epistle. “I mean to let that wait. It is business, and I 
have forsworn business for the present." 

“ But suppose it be a letter of extraordinary importance, 
containing something that requires immediate attention?" 

“ When you suggest that, Miss Dean, I am more than 
ever inclined to let it wait." 

“But all the diamonds may have failed." 

“More diamonds must be found." 

“ This is really inexcusable in so great a man of business, 
Mr. Reade." 

“ But 1 am not so great a man of business, I assure you. 
Miss Dean." 

“Very well, I accept you at your own valuation. But 
if you don't intend to read your letter, I will read mine 
again. " 

This she proceeded to do, and Gilbert, after a moment's 
hesitation, picked up the rejected letter, opened it, and 
glanced over the contents. Then he threw it down again, 
with an exclamation of disgust. 

“ Was I a prophet?" inquired Marian, looking up from 
her own letter. 

“ N-no, not exactly," replied Gilbert. 

“ The diamonds have not failed?" 

“ Oh, no," he answered quickly; “ nothing as interesting 
as that. But they tell me that I am wanted at the Cape 
again. " 

“ Oh," said Marian, “I am sorry for that." 

Gilbert looked uncommonly pleased at this, and very 
nearly blushed. 

“I mean," added Marian, “that if you are going back 
to the Cape we can not have our expedition to Rabaqal; 
Mrs. W arren and I could never go alone. " 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


145 


“ I don’t know that I shall go to the Cape,” said Gilbert. 

At any rate I can’t start for a week; so we shall have 
plenty of time for Rabaqal. ” 

“ I am glad of that,” said Marian. 

Perhaps the opportunity was a good one. For a moment 
Gilbert seemed to think it was; a look crossed his face, the 
corners of his mouth twitched, a half formed sentence rose 
to his lips. But he hesitated, and the chance was lost. He 
sat silent. 

“ I really must go and see if Mrs. Warren has made out 
her letter,” said Marian, rising from her chair. “ Shall I 
tell her that you are thinking of returning to the Cape, 
Mr. Reade?” 

“I wish the Cape were submerged!” replied Gilbert, 
with unwonted energy. 

“Oh! — and all the diamonds?” 

“All the diamonds in the world — except one!” 

“ Is one so precious above the others, then?” 

“ There is one that is priceless!” 

“ You ought to be very precious of that one, Mr. Reade.” 

“ So I should be, but unfortunately it is not in my posses- 
sion. ” 

“ Ah, that is sad, is it not? But if you value it so high- 
ly, you will doubtless make an effort to secure it.” 

“It has seemed too far beyond me; but you have given 
me courage to try.” 

She laughed that so seeming innocent laugh of hers, and 
went on into the house. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

CABO GIRAO. 

Marian, like Gilbert, had received two letters by that 
mail from England. Gilbert saw her read the first, but 
no one saw her read the second. Only Mrs. Warren knew 
that she had received it, for Marian had put it in her pocket 
at once, though with no effort at or desire of concealment. 
It was a letter from Arnold, the first he had been written 
her since she left England. Finding that Mrs. Warren, 
with the help of her magnifying-glass, had succeeded in 
deciphering the hieroglyphs of the parlor-maid, she went 
on to her own room to read Arnold’s letter in quiet. 


146 


WIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


“ What a little letter!" was her first exclamation when 
she had opened it. 

Yes; it was a very little letter, but a very nice one; 
a brief, manly letter, containing scant intelligence about 
the writer, but full of solicitude for Marian; words of 
gladness of the good news of her returning health, which 
he had read in her letters to the lieutenant; thanks for the 
messages to him, and an entreaty that she would send him 
a letter, were it not more than a dozen lines, for himself. 
There was an earnest tone about this letter which might 
have held a deeper meaning than the mere words conveyed 
had Marian been seeking such a meaning; but she saw in 
it only a warmer expression than usual of the goodness 
and tenderness of heart which she had proved in Arnold in 
the days when they had played together as children. 

But she liked that letter very much; reproached herself, 
as she put it away, that she had not written to Arnold be- 
fore, and resolved that the next mail should not leave for 
England without carrying a letter from her to him. 

This letter of Arnold's, I have said, had been seen by 
Mrs. Warren, who, indeed, had given it into Marian's 
hands. That evening, when Gilbert had gone for a stroll 
in the Pra9a, the ladies were sitting together at the open 
window, and the subject was lightly touched on between 
them. 

“ I have had a letter from Arnold," said Marian. 

“I thought I recognized the writing, dear," replied Mrs. 
Warren. 

How did you do that, Mrs. Warren? He has not writ- 
ten to me here before. " 

“ No, dear; but don't you remember that he wrote all 
our labels for us? It was I who got him to do that, you 
know. From the moment I heard he was connected with 
the law I said to myself, ‘ He shall write our luggage-la- 
bels.' It is most important to have them done in a perfectly 
clear and unmistakable hand. I once lost a valuable — 
But how is he, dear? I have lost so many things through 
labels having been carelessly written." 

“He does not say much about himself," replied Marian; 
“ indeed, I wish he said more, fori believe he is overwork- 
ing himself at Mr. Trimble's." 

“ Ah, we must not let him do that. Write to him, dear, 


*TWIXT LOVE A3STD DUTT. 147 

and tell him about that shocking mathematical affair; it 
might serve as a warning,” 

“ I shall certainly write to him, but I don’t think I’ll say 
anything about the problem, for, now that I remember, I 
promised him to have nothing to do with mathematics 
until I was quite strong again. 

“ You forgot that promise, I’m afraid, dear. ” 

“ Yes,” said Marian, “ I’m afraid I did.” 

“ No message for me in the letter, I suppose, dear?” 

“ Oh, yes, Mrs. Warren; I ought to have given you that 
at once. He sends the nicest message of thanks to you for 
all the care you have taken of me. ” . 

et Very kind of him, dear, indeed. After that I must 
entreat you, for selfish reasons, to say nothing of the 
mathematics. And the rest of the letter is — ?” 

“ The rest is all about me, Mrs. Warren.” 

ff Ah; you found that part pleasant reading, dear, I 

“ I would rather there had been more about himself,” 
she answered. 

<c He must remedy that when he writes again,” Mrs. 
Warren said. 

“ I wish he had some good friends of his own in Lon- 
don,” observed Marian. “ I am quite certain he is often 
very lonely. ” 

“ Does he say anything about that?” 

(( Oh, no. It is the last thing in the world he would 
speak of.” 

“ Is the letter — ahem! — is it a tender letter, dear?” 

“ It is a very kind one,” laughed Marian. 

“ Of that I am sure, my love; but — hem! — is it a tender 
letter?” 

“ Not, I think, in the sense you mean, Mrs. Warren.” 

“ Just so, dear.” 

Some further talk in a similar strain was interrupted by 
the return of Gilbert. Mrs. Warren, however, had re- 
ceived an impression. 

Marian went up to bed shortly afterward, and Gilbert 
was left alone with his aunt. A conversation ensued which 
any one who had overheard would have found passionate on 
his part, anxiously affectionate on hers. 

Mrs. Warren was constrained to say that she did not 
think Marian loved him. 


TWI.XT LOVE AND DUTY. 


148 

“ It would have surprised me more if you had said that 
you thought she did. Aunt Susan,” he replied. 

“ I do not think,” said Mrs. Warren, “that the child 
loves anybody.” 

“ That, of course, is also possible,” answered her nephew. 

“ She is the oddest child that ever was,” went on Mrs. 
Warren, “with her notions about independence and the 
* glory of earning your own living/ Sometimes, if she 
were not the dearest child in the world, I should have been 
more than half inclined to lose patience with her.” 

“ I like that independence of hers,” said Gilbert. 

“Tut! Yes. Oh, well, perhaps, perhaps. She is a 
very dear girl, at all events. But, Gilbert, when I said I 
thought she did not love anybody I did not say that she 
might not love somebody. ” 

“ That I take to be highly problematical.” 

“ Of problems, Gilbert, I have heard more than enough 
lately. Let them rest, if you please.” 

Mrs. Warren was a little nettled that she had not suc- 
ceeded better in her nephew’s behalf. For some days past 
she had played her part with unobtrusive assiduit}^, testing 
Marian’s feelings by all the means at her disposal, throw- 
ing Marian and Gilbert together by such discreet devices 
as she could contrive, talking of him to her — in a word, 
doing everything short of telling her in downright phrase 
that he was hopelessly in love with her. 

Marian had not shown herself in any degree moved; 
seemed, indeed, not to have had the smallest perception of 
the drift and significance of all these subtle suasions. 

That she liked Gilbert was evident. She had smiles and 
pleasant talk for him, and could be earnest on occasion 
when they passed from chatter to something in more serious 
vein. But for the most part it was as though they avoided 
by common consent whatever bordered on the serious; their 
talk was a perpetual airy wrangle, with here and there an 
interlude; and with the weapon of banter she held him at 
arm’s-length, and seemed always to say, “ Thus far but no 
further.” 

Gilbert invited them to a picnic at Cabo Girao. 

They had an early breakfast, and started immediately 
afterward. Mrs. W arren went in her hammock, which the 
father of nine children, unremitting in his efforts to win 
her favor, had lavishly decorated with dowers and grapes 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


149 


and bunches of Indian corn. Marian and Gilbert were on 
horseback. Marian's mount was a little dark wiry mare, 
which Gilbert had hunted the town to procure for her. 
Wonderful animals for their work these small Madeira 
horses are; it strengthens one's respect for the whole equine 
race to see one of them climb or descend the side of an 
almost perpendicular mountain, over a road which would 
make the most supine member of a local British board of 
works blush an elegant purple. Coming down, they gather 
themselves together and leap from ledge to ledge in a fash- 
ion that exercises the rider considerably. But they never 
slip, for they are as sure-footed as the iurriqueiros (mule- 
^ drivers, literally, though you scarcely see a mule in the 
* island) who run screaming beside them. 

Up through the hard-paved streets climbed and clattered 
our three friends, Mrs. Warren's bearers close behind the 
horses' heels. They passed hammocks slowly swinging on 
their long poles, and had glimpses of the pale-faced burdens 
within. Gilbert glanced an instant at one fair girl lying 
on her cushions, with a face as white as the lily her fingers 
clasped, then turned half round in his saddle and looked 
at Marian, whose eyes were light and sparkling, and her 
cheeks warm with the glow of health renewed. 

“Is there something wrong with my dress?" asked 
Marian, for he had not often scrutinized her so boldly. 

“Your dress is quite perfect," replied Gilbert. “ I was 
thinking that when I saw you first you might have changed 
places with the girl who lias just passed us." 

“ Did I look like that?" asked Marian, with a shudder. 

“You were the image then of what she is now." 

Marian made no answer, and they rode on in silence for 
awhile, until they had left the town behind them and 
passed on to a fine soft road with trees overhanging, where 
the horses asked in the plainest fashion to be allowed to 
show their speed. 

“Are you for a gallop?" asked Gilbert, and her eyes 
sparkled consent, and in another moment they had left Mrs. 
Warren a quarter of a mile in the rear. 

They galloped on a good half-mile, then drew bridle, and 
turned, and rode slowly back to meet Mrs. Warren. 

“ I thought you were running away," said that lady, with 
more complacence than might have been expected. 


150 


'twixt loye and duty. 


“ From you, Mrs. Warren! I, at all events, am not base 
enough for that," said Marian. 

“You may include me," said Gilbert. “We went, like 
Gilpin, because our horses would." 

The good road came presently to an end, as all good 
roads in Madeira do. It ended basely enough at the bridge 
over the Ribiero dos Soccoridos, where Zargo's two com- 
panions were within an ace of drowning. From here you 
glance upward and feel the majesty of the mountains, and 
wonder whether the horses are really as good climbers as 
the burriqueiros declare. 

“They had a noble river here once," said Gilbert, 
“ until they cut down their pine forests overhead, and let 
it shrink to this torrent. " • 

“ I was just thinking there is a good deal of bridge for a 
very little river," observed Mrs. Warren. “Marian, my 
dear, do not let your horse paw in that extravagant manner; 
he looks as if he would step over the bridge." 

They began now to climb a narrow rugged path, the 
mountains towering ever higher and sterner above them, 
and, ascending and descending by turns, came to the 
fishing- village of Camara dos Lobos, “ Place of Seals," 
where the harbor was full of little gaudy boats loading and 
unloading. Here they halted for awhile to rest the men 
and horses, and took a turn in the cool dim market-place, 
whose shade was grateful. 

In half an hour they began to climb again. It was 
tremendous work now, the path almost perpendicular, and 
diminishing in width at every step. 

“Stop, Gilbert, stop!" called out Mrs. Warren. “I am 
quite certain we shall all roll backward if we attempt to go 
on." 

“ This is nothing, Aunt Susan; we are only just begin- 
ning the ascent," answered Gilbert, from the front, keep- 
ing half an eye on his own horse, and an eye and a half on 
Marianas. 

“Then I shall go back at once," cried Mrs. Warren. 
“ Tell the men to turn about, Gilbert." 

“ It is easier up than down, I assure you. Aunt Susan; 
besides, you will lose your luncheon." 

“ To think," murmured Mrs. Warren, as she lay back in 
her hammock and prepared herself for the worst, “ that 


*TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 151 

my own nephew should ask me to risk my life for a little 
cold roast fowl — the liver wing is all I ever touch. " 

But there was really no danger. The horses, though 
they had dropped their curveting, went as surely and 
almost as lightly as they had done on the level road, and 
the hammock-bearers would have scorned a slip. 

Presently the path became so narrow that the riders had 
to dismount. At this height the vegetation began to change, 
put off its tropical character, and take on an appearance 
which Marian said reminded her of Scotland. 

“ You make me almost weep, child," exclaimed Mrs. 
Warren. “ I had a Scotch cook for eleven years. To think 
1 should be reminded of her in a place like this!" 

They were now amongst the fir-trees, broom, and pines; 
the air was crisp and sweet, but growing keener. Gilbert 
unfolded a shawl which he had had strapped on his saddle, 
and placed it about Marian's shoulders. 

“ Thank you," she said. “ I do believe I wanted it. 
See what it is to be in the care of an experienced traveler. " 

“ I will be shabby enough to remind you that you 
scorned the notion of a wrap when we set out," he an- 
swered. 

“ Yes, but you see I am not an experienced traveler. 
On a question of wraps I promise to trust you' in the fut- 
ure. " 

Shaking themselves free of a horde of beggars, who 
rushed on them from a group of mountain-huts, our trav- 
elers entered the shades of a pine forest, rounded a grand 
headland, and reached at length the threshing-floor of Gabo 
Girao, where they were to lunch. 

Gilbert, who knew to a nicety how these matters should 
be ordered, had sent his men in advance; and on the verdant 
edge of the cliff, under a tent of massy leafage, luncheon 
was laid on a snow-white cloth. The men had disappeared, 
and it looked as though the cloth and its contents had been 
let down, like the apostles, out of the skies. 

“Forgive me, Gilbert," said Mrs. Warren, with emotion, 
as her glance fell on her favorite pastry, “ that I should for 
one moment have doubted your guardianship." 

“ You are not the first who has doubted it, Aunt Susan." 

“ Or been agreeably disappointed in the end, I am sure, 
dear Gilbert." 


152 


*TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


“ My dear aunt, you overwhelm me. But this is Grand! - 
sonian. Miss Dean is waiting to begin. " 

There were tiny terraced corn-fields about them, and 
pine-clad hills above, and the blue Atlantic waste beneath. 

They lunched, and Mrs. Warren placed her handkerchief 
over her head and slept like a stone-pine. 

ee Come," said Gilbert to Marian, “ and I will show you 
the finest view in the world." 

He led her but a few yards to the brink of a headland, 
which rose, a sheer basaltic wall, two thousand feet out of 
the sea. Moses on the height of Pisgah saw no such sight 
as this! Marian held her breath, and gazed with silent, 
wide-eyed wonder. Sky, air, and sea — no more than these : 
but what a miracle of light, and sound, and odor; of never- 
ending waters, cloven by the sun, and widening outward 
and onward till they met and mingled with the sky! 

“ Oh, it was good of you to bring me here!" said Marian, 
at length, with a voice that came out of her heart. 

“I wanted to give you one sight to remember," he an- 
swered. 

“ You have done it," she said, “for this one will he a 
part of my memory all my life long. " 

“I wonder whether, for a tenth of that time, you will re- 
member who brought you here?" 

“ Yes," she said, quietly, “I think I shall remember 
that too." 

Oh, Gilbert Keade, what are you about that you dally 
with this golden chance? Do not all things accord? Has 
she ever looked on you with eyes so soft before? Is not the 
air that wraps you both around tingling with very love? 
Was it not, think you, Yeath a sky like this that Adam 
wooed and won his Eve in Paradise? 

But he lets it go, for in very truth he fears lest, on the 
threshold of his Eden, another word of his may shut the 
door upon him. 

They turned from the headland and went back to Mrs. 
Warren, sleeping now like a forest. But something, no 
doubt, informed her dreams that, so far as Gilbert was con- 
cerned, it was no use sleeping any longer; and, practical 
even in the realms of Nod, she awoke almost immediately. 

The afternoon was wearing on, and Gilbert called up the 
men, and they began their descent to Funchal. It had 
seemed steep enough coming up, but going down was like 


153 


'twixt love ajnd duty. 

descending a church-steeple. Marian, who was in the gay- 
est spirits, thought it capital fun — whence, of course, Gil- 
bert thought it capital fun also; but one of the party 
scarcely drew breath until level ground was touched again. 

The night breeze was blowing from the sea when they 
reached the hotel in time for dinner. 

“Has — has anything transpired?” Mrs. Warren inquired 
of her nephew later in the evening. 

“ Nothing,” replied Gilbert. 

“Then I am very seriously annoyed!” returned his aunt. 

‘ f I deliberately went to sleep on the top of a windy rock in 
order that you might behave as — as any other man in those 
circumstances would have done. My only reward will he 
an attack of rheumatism. I have a great mind to take 
Marian back to England by the next boat.” 

Gilbert had some ado to mollify his aunt, who, of course, 
had reason on her side. Doubt had made him play the 
laggard as he had never done before. But if he faltered 
longer his case was hopeless, for should he return to the 
Cape he must sail in three days. 


CHAPTER XX, 

RABA£AL — AKD AFTER. 

“ The cook says we can not possibly go to Rabaqal and 
back in a day/* urged Mrs. Warren. 

“ This cook knows too much/* answered Gilbert. “ He 
must be refuted. Miss Dean, can you make a very early 
start?* * 

“ Yes; if my breakfast is guaranteed.** 

“ I will be responsible for that myself. Aunt Susan, 
can you breakfast at five o*clock?” 

se At least I can eat something and call it breakfast/* re- 
plied Mrs. Warren. 

“ It is all I ask/* said her nephew. “ I will make our 
arrangements at once. A friend of mine, who has been 
cruising in his yacht amongst the Azores, landed here yes- 
terday. He is going up the Gran Corral to-day, and will 
lend his yacht to take us as far as Calheta.** 

“ Have you noticed anything unusual about Gilbert the 
last day or two, dear?** said Mrs. Warren to Marian, when 
Gilbert had gone down to the shore. 


154 


'twixt LOVE A3S t D duty. 


44 1 think his appetite has increased/ ' replied Marian. 

44 He was longer over dinner than any one else last night. " 

44 I did ndt mean that, Marian. Indeed, I have fancied 
his appetite was falling off. He seems to me to have some- 
thing on his mind. ” 

44 There is some very expensive diamond that he wants 
to buy, I think,” said Marian. 44 Perhaps that may be 
troubling him.” 

44 Indeed; I don't remember to have heard about that." 

44 Has he not told you, Mrs. Warren? I understood him 
that it was almost impossible to get it, but he meant to 
try.” 

4 4 Oh!” said Mrs. Warren, in an altered tone, and with 
a smile. 44 Yes, yes, to be sure; I think I know the dia- 
mond Gilbert means.” 

44 I hope he may get it, if it is of so much importance to 
him,” said Marian. 

44 1 am sure it would encourage him greatly if you would 
tell him that, dear,” observed Mrs. Warren. 

Soon after five the next morning they left the hotel and 
went down to the shore, where the steam-yacht was waiting 
that was to take them to Calheta on the way to Babagal. 

This was Marian's first excursion by water, and delicious 
the sensation was, in the cool clear air of the morning, 
with the still blue sea around and the painted cliffs above. 
They passed Camara dos Lobos, where they had halted on 
the road to Cabo Girao two days before, then Cabo Girao 
itself, and on till they reached the lovely little bay of Cal- 
heta. A native boat took them ashore on the crest of a big 
wave, and the men whom Gilbert had brought on from 
Funchal got their hammocks into readiness at once. 

44 Are you for a hammock too?' ' asked Marian of Gilbert. / 

44 With apologies — yes. But it is necessary to-day. I 
hoped, however, to slink into it unobserved." 

44 1 will show you how to get in if you like,” said she. 

44 Thank you; but it would please me better to be 
allowed to help you;” which he did. 

It was now only a little after eight o'clock, and the 
young, fresh glory of the day was like a veil about them as 
they rose into the mountain air. The sea shone beneath 
them, until, as they were carried higher and further inland, 
it began to leave their sight; and then, as they looked up- 
ward, it seemed that a white company of the clouds swept 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


155 


slowly down to meet them. The clouds touched them by 
and by, and in this strange company they crossed a wide 
dark moor, peopled only by the locusts and the centipedes. 

Presently Marian, who had been lying back in her ham- 
mock, looking up with idle satisfaction at the great grim 
rampart of the mountains, uttered a cry of surprise, as the 
bearers stopped short before the black mouth of a cavern. 
Ferns bearded it all round, but it was forbidding as a tomb. 
“ We are not going in there!” exclaimed Mrs. Warren, for 
one or two of the men were preparing to light torches of 
twicrs smeared with some pitchy matter. 

“It is this or nothing,” laughed Gilbert. “ What do 
you say to it, Miss Dean?” 

“ I would not escape it for the world,” said Marian. 
“ Please , Mrs. Warren, don't cry back; it looks so deli- 
ciously dark inside.” 

“ We shall not emerge alive; of that I am certain,” said 
Mrs. Warren. “ Really, if I had had any idea Madeira 
was like this I would have gone to Torquay. Ugh! We 
are positively going in. Keep close to me, Gilbert, if you 
please. You will oblige me by letting the men know that 
my brooch is only imitation. '' 

It was like entering a circle of Dante's Inferno. A few 
yards from the entrance the cavern — it was only a mountain 
tunnel, though, and not a cavern at all — grew inky black, 
and the torches of the guides were like red patches on a pall. 

“ Let us stop and have a ghost story,” began Marian, 
but an inarticulate wail which issued from the throat of 
Mrs. Warren brought her to a sympathetic pause. 

Just when the darkness seemed Egyptian a spot of white 
light showed in the distance, and in a moment or two their 
eyes were dazzled as the bearers carried them out of the 
tunnel into the full blaze of the sun, which fell on clinging 
moss and trailing fern and silvered the edges of myriad 
stony peaks. It was as abrupt as the passage in fairy-tale 
from the magician's den to the palace of the fairy queen. 
Mists white and gfay rolled up from the valley far beneath 
and hid the mountains as they passed. 

Marian drew a long breath, and turned to Gilbert and 
said: 

“ This will be one other memory.” 

“ This is Rabaqal,” said he. “ Will you go further? I 
have more to show you yet.” 


156 


’twixt love and duty. 


“You are our guide; we are in your hands / 5 she 
answered. 

But Mrs. Warren had still to recover from the tunnel, 
and said she thought they had gone far enough. 

“ There is an ideal place for luncheon a little further 
on / 5 Gilbert said. “ You will be well out of sight of the 
tunnel there, Aunt Susan; come along, come along . 55 

And Mrs. Warren, who said she had no objection to be 
out of sight of the tunnel, allowed herself to be persuaded, 
and the bearers moved on again. 

They were carried now along a sharp steep path, hardly 
a span across, with trees of the lily of the valley beside 
them, and new loveliness of hue and form disclosed at every 
step. Presently Gilbert ordered a halt, and they sat down 
and eat like a party rescued from famine. Then Mrs. 
Warren gathered her cloak about her, for there was a nip- 
ping and an eager air up here, and said she would go no 
further. 

“ Very well, Aunt Susan / 5 said Gilbert; “ but we have 
not exhausted the neighborhood . 55 

“ You have exhausted my energies, though. If Marian 
likes to go a little further she may; but I think it will soon 
be time for us to return . 55 

“ What do you say, Miss Dean? Are your energies ex- 
hausted ? 55 

“ Not in the least; but we must not overdo our bearers . 55 

At this, the handsomest of Marian 5 s hammock-men 
arose, and twirled his cap in his fingers, and smiled with 
all his features, and bent himself backward and forward, 
and this way and that, and called his father and his mother, 
and the King of Portugal, and all his children, and his 
patron saint to witness that he was ready to scale the 
clouds with Marian on his shoulders. 

“ We can not in decency refuse to use up a little of this 
energy / 5 said Marian, when she had thanked her bearer 
becomingly. 

“ Then if you will go with me I will show you the 
Twenty-five Fountains / 5 said Gilbert; and off they went, 
leaving Mrs. Warren comfortably bestowed with the father 
of nine children, to whom she had recently become recon- 
ciled, standing over her like a sentry. 

Marian and Gilbert in their hammocks went down, 
down, down a narrow broken path with daphne and laurel 


’TWIXT LOVE ANT) DUTY. 


157 


ind lily and featlier-like fern hiding the sheer wall of the 
precipice, over which one false step would have cast them. 
There had been heavy rain the day before, and in some 
places, where the road had been completely washed away, 
the bearers waded knee -deep in crystal water. 

“ Are you afraid?” called out Gilbert. 

“ ISTot a bit. It would be almost a privilege to be killed 
in a place like this . 99 

By and by they reached a scrap of a stone bridge, a few 
inches wide, and stood in the center of foaming waters 
which poured from the rocks above and leaped and hissed 
along a narrow tortuous bed. Jet after jet they counted, 
rising, sparkling, and scattering spray like diamond dust 
into the air. 

These were the Twenty-five Fountains, and here they got 
down from the hammocks and left the bearers to rest 
awhile, and Gilbert said that Marian must come a step or 
two further and see the Cave of the Fairies. 

It rose dark and silent by the edge of a deep pool, gar- 
landed and roofed with fern. 

“Will you stay here and be queen to the fairies?" asked 
'.Gilbert, presently. 

44 They would depose me in a week,” she answered. 



“ Not if I were their prime minister," said Gilbert. 

“You? Oh, you would be the first to lead revolt, I 
think.” 

“ Against you?” 

4 4 Against me . 9 9 

“ No; I would be your trusty counselor. You and I 
would make wise laws for the people, and they should be 
written in your name, and they would call you the great 
and good queen, and bring you offerings in lily cups and a 
fresh crown of fern-leaf every day. ” 

44 What would you do with the very old and ugly fairies?’* 

44 We would set the young ones to build mansions for 
them and tell them stories. ” 

44 And with the very young and pretty ones?” 

44 They would take care of themselves. But there would 
be no young and pretty ones for me while you sat queen . 99 

44 That is very polite; but it is not like you to turn flat- 
terer.” 

44 1 do not flatter; I speak the soberest truth/' 


158 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


“ Then I think it is time for us to go back to Mrs. "War- 
ren/* she said, flushing slightly as she rose. 

“ Will you go and not hear me? You can not be off end- 
ed, Marian, if you will believe how truly I speak. I have 
waited to say this — to say that I love you — waited and 
feared, not daring to speak; hut loving you the stronger 
for my silence. 1 do not ask you to say that you love me, 
Marian — ** 

“ I could not say that/* she interrupted, gently but de- 
cisively. 

“ No, you can not say that. I knew you would not,** 
he answered, and his voice trembled a little. “ But will 
you not say that I may love you?** 

“ How can I let you love me if I do not love you?** 

“ You will deny me that too, Marian?** 

“ Yes; you must speak no more of this, please. I do 
not know whether I am to blame for what you have said to 
me ; if I have spoken a word or done anything to lead you 
to think — to think what is quite impossible, I am sorry; 
very, very sorry.** 

“ You are good/* he answered, gently, “ and very kind. 
No; I alone am to blame. There has not been, and could 
not be, a fault with you. ** 

“ I am sorry; so sorry/’ she said, and put her hand into 
his, and there were tears in her eyes as she looked at him. 

“ Yet you deny me everything. Oh! Marian, not every- 
thing. Let me love you, and I will make you to love me.** 

“ I can not, I dare not, I have not the right, I — oh, let 
us go back to Mrs. Warren, please. Why did I let you 
bring me here?** 

“ Is there any other that you love? You will let me ask 
you that, Marian?** 

6 i I love no one well enough to be his wife/* she answered. 

“ And you will not try to love one well enough?** 

“ I can not, I can not. Spare me this, please. I have 
no thought of marriage, no wish to marry. Mine is to be 
a student’s life.** 

As she spoke she moved slowly forward; and Gilbert, who 
was Very pale and quiet, was left standing at the entrance 
to the cave. 

When she became aware that he did not follow, she 
turned and went back to him, and once more put her hand 
in his. 


'twixt lote and duty. 159 

“ Come ,” she said, with a rather sad smile, “ we must 
go together. Are you still my friend?” 

“ What need you ask? Your friend before, your friend 
now, your friend ever.” 

She thanked him rather with her eyes than with her lips, 
and let him detain for an instant's closer grasp the hand 
she had laid in his. Then they went on together to where 
their hammock-bearers basked in the sun, and were carried 
back to Mrs. Warren. 

That acute lady perceived at a glance that the plot had 
miscarried. She groaned inwardly, but preserved a smil- 
ing exterior; and, with hypocrisy branded on their faces, 
they set out on their journey home. It was well for the 
sake of appearances that their mode of progress along the 
high shelving paths imposed no necessity of conversation, 
and by the time they reached the yacht at Calheta Gilbert 
had regained sufficient command of himself to be able to 
talk with forced animation to Marian as well as to his aunt. 

Arrived at the hotel, Mrs. Warren dismissed Gilbert 
dexterously, and he appeard no more that night. 

Marian was flushed, and her manner betrayed nervous- 
ness, but she persuaded herself that she had hidden every- 
thing from Mrs. Warren. Mrs. Warren, to support her 
in this belief and lull any suspicions she might have re- 
specting her own complicity, preserved an unbroken and 
seemingly unobservant cheerfulness, and talked continu- 
ously on matters indifferent. Marian, on her part, as 
often as she was able to put in a word, spoke of returning 
home as quickly as possible; declared she was perfectly 
well, and must waste no more time in idleness. She even 
began to collect her books, with a view to packing them 
the next day. Mrs. Warren laughed and pretended to en- 
courage her, declaring that she also was ready to return to 
England at any moment. 

But after they had said good-night, and Marian had 
gone to her room, Mrs. Warren took occasion to pay her a 
momentary visit there, and said, in a casual tone, as she 
was going out again: 

“ Gilbert has just told me, dear, that he must return to 
the Cape to-morrow, ” 


160 


f twixt loye and duty. 


CHAPTER XXL 

MB. TRIMBLE RESOLVES HIMSELF. 

“ Rupert,” said Mrs. Trimble at the breakfast-table 
one morning, 44 it is a long while since we have seen any- 
thing of young Mr. Lee. '' 

44 A long while, Maria, eh?” responded her husband, 
preparing to cut his 44 Times. " 

44 Yes; it was only yesterday that Ethel put the question 
to me, 4 Mamma, how long is it since Mr. Lee dined with 
us?’ and I really could not answer her. It must be months 
at the very least. I think, Rupert, that you ought to ask 
him to dinner.” 

44 Hum! Dinner? I don't feel so sure that I ought, 
Maria. Dear me! what a prodigious list of bankrupts: it's 
time we had a change of government . 99 

44 What do you mean, dear, by saying that you don't feel 
sure you ought to ask Mr. Lee?” said Mrs. Trimble. 
44 You know how delighted you have always been with him 
since poor Mr. Jones turned out so badly.” 

44 Well, now, Maria,” answered Mr. Trimble, 44 1 am 
not certain that Jones will turn out so badly. I say I am 
not at all certain about that, Maria. A matter did happen 
which gave me a most unfavorable opinion of him at one 
time; and even now Jones is not all that I could wish. 
But there is a frankness and an openness about Jones that 
gives me more confidence in him than I've been able lately 
to feel in Lee. Lee is a perpetual mystery. He's nothing 
short of that. A perpetual mystery. That's what Lee is, 
Maria. " 

Mr. Trimble spoke rather more testily than he was in 
the habit of doing to his wife. It required very little now- 
adays to put him out of temper whenever he thought or 
spoke of Arnold. 

44 You surprise me a good deal, dear,” said Mrs. Trim- 
ble. 44 1 am glad indeed that Mr. Jones is restoring him- 
self to favor; for you may remember, Rupert, that he was 
a kind of protege of mine. But I thought Mr. Lee had 
always given you complete satisfaction. You never used to 
speak of him except to praise him; and you have told me 


’TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 1(51 

often that you thought him one of the cleverest young men 
you ever saw. " 

“ My present opinion is, Maria, that he is a little too 
clever . 99 

“ Oh, my dear — pooh! too much cleverness is impossible 
in your profession, you know. Perhaps you don’t give him 
quite enough encouragement. He always seemed to me 
rather a sensitive young man. Or you may have been 
overworking him a little. You know, my dear, you work 
so hard yourself that you may be inclined to look for a little 
too much from the clerks / 9 

“ Well, my dear, whether I look for it or not, I don't 
get it. The rascals are very well able to look after them- 
selves. ^ The standard of work amongst clerks in our pro- 
fession is not what it was when I was young. As for Lee, 
well, the truth is, Lee is too deep. I tell you, Maria, that 
Lee is much too deep." 

“ Why, Rupert, what dreadful tiling has the poor boy 
been doing?" 

“Weil," replied Mr. Trimble, a little awkwardly,. 
'“ that’s just what I don’t know, and can’t find out. But 
I know he’s been doing something. I am afraid he is 
mixing with a bad set His money goes in unaccountable 
ways; and he is driven to do various unprofessional things 
to make a second income. He writes for newspapers, I 
am told; and when a young man takes to that, you never 
can be sure of him. You' can’t trust him with professional 
secrets either. No, Maria, no; I must say that since I im- 
proved Lee’s standing in the office he has disappointed me 
considerably. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Trimble, however, was not yet convinced. She felt 
sure, she said, that Arnold had been misunderstood, and - 
still thought that the best thing was to give him some 
pleasanter companionship than musty papers in the even-, 
in g. 

Mr. Trimble heard this as the last word before he set out 
for the City. His private opinion was that the best thing 
he could do would be to get rid altogether of such an ex- 
ceedingly doubtful young man ; but he did not say this to 
Mrs. Trimble. 

A brief and rather singular colloquy took place between 
the solicitor and his manager that morning: Mr. Trimble, 


162 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


suspicious, irritated, ungracious; Arnold, unsuspecting, 
vexed, and troubled. 

e( Er — ugh — er — I don't think, Lee, that — er — ugh you 
have been doing your work as you should do lately ; but 
ugh — um — come and dine with us to-night— ugh/ ' 

Arnold received this uncordial invitation in the manner 
that might have been expected of him. It was like the 
flinging of a bone to a dog, and he rejected it with some 
amount of indignation. 

“ I think, Mr. Trimble,” said he — and he looked rather 
red as he said it— “ that until we understand each other 
better I ought not to accept your hospitality. " 

“ Then you refuse, Lee? Well, I was almost prepared 
for it. There's a matter here," he went on, turning at; 
once to business — “ but perhaps you had better ask Mr- 
Jones to step in." 

Arnold now began to find himself losing authority. Mr. 
Jones, on the other hand, diligently whetting his tongue 
against the manager, found his task easier than before. 

The other clerks, lynx-eyed in such a matter as this, had 
• seen for some time past that all was not as well with 
Arnold as it had been. He no longer lived in the high 
favor of the chief. Mr. Jones was oftener in the inner 
room than the manager, whom, in fact, he seemed steadily 
to be superseding. He dropped an occasional word in the 
hearing of his fellow-clerks to the effect that “"probably 
Lee wouldn't be kept much longer," and himself assumed, 
the air of a gentleman whose fortunes might be expected 
shortly to mend. Indeed, he said, with a covert smile, that 
“ Trim was getting his eyes opened at length, and begin- 
ning to repent of having put the younger in the place of 
the elder." “You see," he said to the junior clerk, on 
another occasion, “ a man may do Well enough on the stool 
of a clerk, who isn't worth a rap in the manager's chair." 
And the juniors, seeing which way the wind blew, began 
forthwith to transfer their allegiance from Arnold to Jones. 

A mystery hung about Arnold which defied all attempts 
at penetration. He had been growing shabby and shabbier 
in his dress — he whom a degree of nicety in this respect 
(which came a long way short of dandyism) had always 
characterized. 

One day the office-boy returned from his dinner bursting 
with news. He had seen the manager taking his lunch at 


*TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


163 


the cheap vegetarian restaurant in Holborn which he him- 
self patronized, where meals — filling at the price — are to 
be had for sixpence. Now, it was well known that Arnold 
had received a considerable addition to his salary at the be- 
ginning of the year. He was known also for a man of 
moderate and frugal ways. How had it come about that, 
with a larger salary, he was living in barely respectable 
style, shunning his friends, and getting more and more out 
of favor with his chief? How had he lost caste and stand- 
ing so rapidly? What did h'e do with his money? 

On this latter point Mr. Jones was no better informed 
than the rest, but what he did know was that his scheme 
to supplant Arnold in Mr. Trimble's favor was getting on 
mightily. 

Mr. Jones had been clear from the first both as to what 
he intended to do and how best it might be done. He was 
perfectly frank with himself — good-humored even — about it. 

Here was a young upstart who, entering the office years 
later than he had done, had on a sudden, and, as Mr. Jones 
reasoned, out of no merit of his own, been promoted to the 
place which it had long been Mr. Jones's ambition to win. 

Trimble had been infatuated, and Arnold was a sly dog. 
This was Mr. Jones's explanation of Arnold's rise. But 
Trimble must be made to rid himself of his infatuation, 
and the sly dog must be bested. It was an enterprise quite 
after Mr. Jones's heart, and the knowledge of his principal 
which he had gained by one or two mishaps in the past had 
taught him the lines on which it was safest to proceed. 

Arnold had discovered long since that Jones was intrigu- 
ing to supplant him, but he kept his counsel. He was too 
proud to speak of what he knew, but he could hardly help 
showing it by other means, and he contrived in this way 
and that to set up a barrier between himself and Jones. 
He held no further communication with him than- the 
business of the office required, and refused so pointedly to 
have anything to do with him after office hours that Jones 
ceased his advances and fell back. 

Mr. Jones had never forgotten a peccadillo in which he 
was once discovered. He knew there was no chance of en- 
trapping Arnold in that way, but it occurred to him that 
another visit to Arnold's chambers might lead to some- 


164 


’twixt love and duty. 


Accordingly he went there one evening, and met Mrs. 
Fagan at the foot of the stairs. 

“ My good woman," began Mr. Jones in his pleasantest 
tone, for he made use of everybody, “ I think that Mr. Lee 
lives somewhere in this building. Yours/ ' continued Mr. 
Jones, indicating with a slight motion of his hand the 
bucket Mrs. Fagan carried on her arm — “ yours is a use- 
ful calling.” 

“ Troth, 'tis a tankless one, your honor,” returned Mrs. 
Fagan. 

“ Don't say that, I beg of you. Who could be wanting 
in gratitude to one of your profession ? You are mothers 
to the 3 r oung men who reside in these desolate chambers. ” 

“ Faix, we are that same, suit; but there's ne'er a one 
of 'em will say it. " 

“ The more shame for them, Mrs. Mrs. " 

“ Fagan, your honor. Loosy Fagan.” 

“ To be sure; I might have known it. And does Mr. 
Lee live here, Mrs. Fagan?” 

“ He did, surr, but lie's out av it thi^good while.” 

“ Gone away?” 

“ Joost that, surr.” 

“ Dear me! Gone away? And where has he gone to, 
my good Mrs. Fagan?” 

IN ow Mrs. Fagan did not know where Arnold had mi- 
grated, but Mr. Jones in putting his question looked at her 
with a generous eye and rattled some loose coins in his 
pocket. 

“ 'Tis this way, ave ye plase, surr," said the wide-awake 
char- woman. “ Misther Lee was sthrict wid me that I 
wudden brathe a whisper to a livin' sowl. " 

Arnold, it need scarcely be said, had laid no such in- 
junction upon her; had not, in fact, taken Mrs. Fagan into 
his confidence at all on the subject of his departure. 

But Mr. Jones swallowed the statement, and went on 
rattling the coins in his pocket, with intent to separate the 
smallest of them for use in case of need. 

“ Ah,” he said, “ Lee had no doubt had some little 
difference with a creditor; that was why he pledged you to 
secrecy, Mrs. Fagan. But I am his friend. He would be 
hurt beyond measure if he thought you had withheld his 
address from me. Indeed, I think he would be almost 
angry, if any one could be angry with you, Mrs. Fagan.” 


165 


'twixt love and duty. 

“ 'Tis yer honor has the swate tongue, an" no mistake/ * 
said Lucy. “ Ay they was all like yer honor it's a blessed 
life I'd be ladin' instid o' frettin' the heart out av me wid 
thryin' to plaze thim." 

But further than this Mrs. Fagan did not vouchsafe, for 
Mr. Jones showed himself in no hurry to bribe her. Mr. 
J ones, in fact, saw that the char-woman was likely to prove 
his match. 

li Take this, Mrs. Fagan, and purchase some little relish 
for your tea," he said, and produced a fourpenny-piece. 
“No, no, don't look at it," for Mrs. Fagan, in truths 
was about to test the coin with her teeth, after eying it 
with no great kindness. 

“ 'Tis too much ye have given me, surr, and that's the- 
truth," said she. 

“ And where did you say Mr. Lee had moved to, Mrs. 
Fagan?" asked Mr. Jones, deprecating her words with a 
modest inclination of the head 

“ Lideed, surr, I couldn't tell ye that same av I timed," 
replied Mrs Fagan, pocketing the coin. 

“ Do you mean that you don't know?" 

“ 'Tis joost what I do mane, yer honor." 

Mr. Jones's expression showed that he was conscious of 
defeat, and that he did not take it equably; and Mrs. Fa- 
gan, with an eye to the other fourpences in the future,, 
made haste to pacify him. 

“ But don't be bodderin' yersel' about that, surr," said 
she, “ for I'll get the place for ye, widout a doubt. An'’ 
see here, I think that's Misther Bell cornin' under th' arch- 
way, that lived wid him. 'Tis he that can tell ye better 
nor me." 

The poet, airy and blithe as ever, came up in time to 
hear himself described by Mrs. Fagan in an under-tone as 
“ an evil-disposed young vagabone that kept all hours and 
was that disarderly in his habits as never was. " 

“Lucy, my treasure, I salute you!" exclaimed Bell, 
coming up as Mrs. Fagan finished her eulogium, and tip- 
ping her bonnet over her eyes. “Now run, or I'll search 
your pockets." 

And Mrs. Fagan, muttering inverted blessings, did re- 
tire with some alacrity; for her pockets, which were nearly 
as deep as her intellect, contained some very decent pick- 
ings. Greetings of a rather cool description passed between 


166 


'twixt loye and duty. 


Bell and Mr. Jones; for Dick knew that Arnold had no 
great regard for his fellow-clerk. 

“ I called to see Lee, Mr. Bell,” said Jones. 

“ Ah! sorry you can't have the pleasure. Didn't he tell 
you he had left here?'' 

“ N-no; oddly enough he didn't.'' 

“ Odd, as you say,'' answered Bell; and added, sotto 
- voce , “ he doesn't want you squinting about with those 
cat's eyes of yours, that's evident.'' 

“You can — ah — you can give me his address, I sup- 
pose?'' insinuated Mr. Jones. 

“ Can't — 'pon my honor,'' responded Dick. “ But 
what's the need? You work in the same shop. He'll tell 
you himself if you ask him.'' 

Dick knew as well as Mr. Jones did that he wouldn't, 
but that was no atfair of his. 

“ Of course I can get it from Lee to-morrow; but I hap- 
pened to be rather anxious to see him this evening,'' said 
Mr. Jones, making a last effort. 

“ Ah, you wouldn't find him in this evening, I fancy; so 
you see it would have to keep till to-morrow in any case. 
Sorry you should be disappointed, Mr. — Mr. Jones. Good- 
night to you;'' and the poet took his way up the stairs. 

“ Lost fourpence, and had some sauce out of young 
good-for-nothing there," was Mr. Jones's comment on this 
adventure, as he quitted the Inn and went in search of bill- 
iards. 

But he was quick to reflect that his mission had not been 
altogether fruitless. He had learned that Arnold had left 
his chambers, and with something of secrecy, as it ap- 
peared; which were facts worth knowing. Should the need 
arise, Mr. Jones did not doubt his ability to discover his 
_ young friend's whereabouts. 

Very soon after this he had another opportunity with 
his principal. Arnold had been sent out of town for a day 
to attend that excellent but tempestuous client. Admiral 
Graeme. In the afternoon his friend McCallum, the editor 
of the “Woolsack," called at the office to see him, on 
“ urrgent literrary beesness.'' McCallum was not a pre- 
sentable man in the conventional sense of the term. An 
excellent journalist, but in appearance and attire a relic of 
the days when gentlemen of the press sent one collar per 


*TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


167 ” 

week to the wash, and seldom went there oftener them- 
selves. 

Mr. McCallum repelled in very cavalier style the inquisi- 
tive advances of Mr. Jones; declined with emphatic- 
pshaws, hoots, and gammons to state his business; and 
went off in a fine Scotch tantrum, declaring that he would 
scarify the firm in the next issue of his paper. Mr. Mc- 
Callum did not speak in whispers, and Mr. Trimble in his 
sanctum caught a word or two of his anathema. 

“ Who was that gentleman, pray?” he inquired of Mr, 
Jones. 

i( That gentleman? Well, no, that person, sir, is a 
friend of Mr. Lee'*s. ” 

44 Indeed! And what does he come here for?” 

. “ He appears to be connected with the newspaper trade, 
sir. He came to see Mr. Lee.” 

44 Indeed! What were , the last words that he used? I 
think my ears must have deceived me.” 

44 He said, sir, that he would scarify us in the next num- 
ber of his paper.” 

44 Scarify! A singular expression. ” 

44 Yes, sir; it was not the only rude expression that he 
used. A person of extremely rough manners. I gathered 
from what he said that Mr. Lee writes for his paper.” 

44 What is the periodical called?” 

44 1 think the 4 Woolsack 9 was the name he mentioned, 
sir. ” 

44 1 have never heard of the periodical.” 

44 Nor I, sir.” 

44 It can scarcely be a reputable print.” 

44 1 should think not, sir.” 

44 And what was the gentleman* s business with Mr. Lee?” 

44 He*would not state it, sir; but seemed determined to 
see Mr. Lee, here or elsewhere. Well, as a matter of fact, 

I don*t even know where Mr. Lee lives, so how could I tell 
him?** 

44 Don*t know, Jones! Come, come! You know very 
well that his chambers are in Staple Inn. ** 

44 Oh no, sir; he has left there. I called at Staple Inn 
about a week ago. The rather dissipated young man he 
shared the rooms with is still there, and I saw him. I also 
saw the extremely dissolute woman who professes to do 
charing in those chambers. They refused me all informa- 


168 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


tion, and jeered at me. As there seemed to be some mys- 
tery about Mr. Lee, and a desire to keep his present place 
of living a secret, of course I did not press my inquiries. 
It would not surprise me to learn, sir, that Mr. Lee has been 
privately married, or — or something of that sort. '' 

“ I did not ask for your opinion, Mr. J ones. * ' 

“ I beg pardon, sir/* said Mr. Jones, and retired in a 
modest and thoroughly comfortable frame of mind. 

As he drove home that evening, Mr. Trimble revolved 
the matter for the last time and came to a resolution. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

AND ACTS ON HIS KESOLVE. 

What was this resolution that Mr. Trimble had? 

It was to come — without further dallying — to a settle- 
ment with Arnold. 

Arnold must make a clean breast of it, or go. This is 
what Mr. Trimble had decided as he drove home the pre- 
vious night. 

Generosity and a certain meanness were interfused in 
him. His kinder moods — and he had them — were apt at 
all times to be dominated by a latent habit of suspicion. 
And when he suspected, he could and did act with prompt 
spitefulness. 

He had brought himself to believe that Arnold had in 
some way deceived him. There was that in the solicitor's 
nature which would have created and fed such a belief; but 
the spark of mistrust once kindled in him, the poison- 
breath of J ones had blown it into flame. 

We have seen something of the manner in which this 
flame had played about the head of Arnold these many 
weeks past; scorching him miserably. It had become a 
Are now, like to consume him. 

There was ground, of course, for the unkindly feeling 
which Arnold's master had allowed himself to cherish 
against him. Arnold had never lifted a finger to remove 
or lighten the suspicions of Mr. Trimble. And these sus- 
picions rested on a fair basis. 

It was visible to common eyesight that all was not right 
with Arnold. Outwardly he was not the man he had been. 


'twixt love and duty. 


169 


Himself only knew the struggle he had to maintain the 
paltriest show of respectability before his principal and his 
fellow-clerks; for he was living on a bare pound a week, 
with a rare guinea from McCallum. He could not hide 
altogether the effect of his straitened means; and he had 
chosen to keep the cause to himself. Suspicion then was 
free to work as it pleased. 

Mr. Trimble knew that through some channel or other 
he had floated away two hundred and fifty pounds; and 
had seen that since that time Arnold's affairs had steadily 
declined. 

Moreover, as regarded the work of the office, he had not 
maintained his old standard. The external causes which 
had operated to bring about this deterioration were beyond 
Mr. Trimble's ken. He had not seen the stealthy foot of 
Jones creeping about Arnold's room when Arnold was out 
of it; nor the diligent hand of Jones dropping precious pa- 
pers into hidden recesses, and consigning unanswered let- 
ters to the safe shelter of the waste-paper basket. 

Arnold knew his enemy, but had never found him in 
the field; and to take him by strategy was a task for which 
he had neither genius nor inclination. But his spirit had 
been somewhat overborne, and he was conscious this long 
time past of having done scant justice to himself in his 
daily work. 

Here again Trimble saw the effects, but was (necessarily, 
to some extent) blind as to the real cause. 

He believed that Arnold had fallen amongst evil com- 
pany, and grown careless of and indifferent to his steward- 
ship. 

He felt therefore that he had strong and honest ground 
beneath him in the course he meant to take. 

“Ask Mr. Lee to be good enough to step in. " These 
were his first words on reaching the office the next morn- 
ing. 

Arnold presented himself at once, expecting some fresh 
ebullition of temper. 

But there was no temper in the solicitor's face. Except 
that one hand rustled amongst the heap of unopened let- 
ters, he was quieter than usual. 

He looked full at Arnold and said, “ I have sent for you 
to speak with you on matters that concern us both. I am 
mot satisfied with you, Lee. " 


170 


'TWIXT LOYE AOT DUTY. 


“Iam sorry to say I know that, sir / 3 was Arnold's re- 
ply. 

“ I don't know what has come over yon," pursued Mr. 
Trimble, “ but you do not fill the place in my office that 
you once did. I had great hopes of you, Lee. You have 
disappointed them." 

This was bitter measure for Arnold, but he stood quiet 
and made no answer. Mr. Trimble had the air and took 
the tone of a man who felt himself injured. 

“ There have been things in the past that required ex- 
planation," he went on. “ You have not chosen to ex- 
plain them, and I have not pressed you for an account as 
closely as I had a right to do. But we can go on in this 
way no longer. You must make a clean breast of it." 

“ What is it, sir, that you wish me to explain?" asked 
Arnold. 

“ Can you explain the falling-off in your work, for one 
thing?" 

“ I am afraid I could not explain everything without 
making accusations that you would not care to hear, Mr. 
Trimble," he replied. 

“ Accusations! What do you mean, Lee? Let us have 
no unfounded accusations, if you please." 

.“You will get nothing of that sort from me, sir; but 
perhaps I had better be silent." 

“ I am to understand, then, that you decline to give me 
.any explanation?" 

“ I have nothing to explain, sir." 

“ I regret it," said Mr. Trimble, coldly. “ I have had 
abundant evidence lately that your heart is not in your 
work. My interests in consequence have suffered. You 
have grown careless and, I am afraid, callous. You have 
affairs of your own for which mine have been neglected." 

“No, sir, that is not the case," said Arnold, sturdily. 
“Iam serving you now as conscientiously as I have ever 
done. What work I do other than yours is done away from 
here, in time that is my own. "* 

“ Yet persons connected with obscure newspapers (which 
it seems hardly fitting that one in your position should have 
anything to do with) call on you here, and are insolent to 
my clerks." 

“Iam certain that no friend of mine, who was fairly re- 
ceived, would be other than a gentleman to anybody here. " 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 171 

“Ah! Then in future perhaps your friends would da 
well not to risk receptions which do not appear to satisfy 
them.” 

“ I will take care that they do not, sir . 99 

i i Thank you. But that is not all. Whether you are or are 
not serving me as conscientiously as before, the result is 
not what it used to be. I can not continue you in the post 
of manager here unless some decided change for the better 
takes place at once.” 

“ In regard to my position here, I am in your hands en- 
tirely, sir.” 

Arnold spoke with respectful quietness, but his face and 
manner showed that he understood the gravity of Mr. 
Trimble's words. 

“ He seems sincere," thought Trimble; but at once cor- 
rected this thought with another. “ He's too deep for 
me.” 

Nevertheless, the seeming honesty of Arnold's bearing 
touched him a little. 

“ You are involved in some foolish, and, I am afraid, in 
some bad business, Lee. I wish you would tell me what it 
is,” he said next. 

“ Sir,” replied Arnold, patiently, but with evident dis- 
tress, “ it would be kinder if you would put no questions 
to me that do not directly concern my relations with you.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Trimble, impatiently, “ but this is 
such a question. Whatever your entanglement be, it has 
affected you in every relation, professional and otherwise. 
Into a purely private matter I should have no right (and I 
hope no desire) to pry. But this is not altogether such a 
matter. I have been concerned in it to some extent from 
the first. Indeed, I consider myself not free from blame 
for the result. It was I who advanced you money, and 
that loan, or the use you made of it, is accountable for the 
deplorable state you are in at present. You can't deny 
that. Your troubles began from the day I foolishly lent 
you two hundred and fifty pounds. From that day the 
falling-off commenced in you and in your work. From 
that day I have had to find incessant fault with you. 
From that day you have been growing careless in profes- 
sional matters, strange in manner, and indifferent in 
dress. Does this concern me or not?” 

Arnold saw that his fate trembled in the balance. He 


172 


’twixt loye and duty. 


knew that a dozen words would save him. He was on the 
point of speaking them. The image of Marian rose in his 
mind, and loyalty to her carried the day. He held his 
peace, knowing that silence condemned him. 

Mr. Trimble hesitated an instant, then said, with blunt 
directness, “ It was for some woman you borrowed that 
money, Lee!” 

It was a coarse way of putting it. Arnold winced, and 
an involuntary red tinged his cheek. Some woman! The 
sweet face of Marian shone before him. 

Trimble saw the red in his cheek, and felt that he had 
given a home -thrust. He believed that he had reached 
truth at last. “ I am right, ” he said to Arnold. 

Chivalrous manhood asserted itself, and Arnold an- 
swered, “ It is not yours, sir, to talk to me in this fashion! 
This affair is mine, and mine alone. I decline to speak of 
it.” 

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Trimble, with a sudden flash 
of eye. “It is time that we closed our account. You 
had better seek another engagement, Lee.” 

He motioned Arnold to leave the room. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE RISING OF THE WATERS. 

As Mr. Trimble had not dismissed him in so many 
words, Arnold on the following day gave formal notice to 
leave. 

By this time Trimble’s angry- jealous mood had spent 
itself, and he went out of his way to say that Arnold might 
take his own day for going. 

“ Let it be a month hence, or two months, if you please. 
Stay till you are suited elsewhere,” he said. 

But Arnold’s blood pricked him; he felt that unjust 
measure had been dealt him. He would prefer to go in a 
week, he said. 

Trimble, even in the generous mood, liked to be met 
half-way. At the least, a favor once rejected he never 
offered twice. 

“Please yourself,” was all he said, and the interview 
ended. No word passed between them as to the payment 
of the debt. 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


173 


The week rolled itself out, and the morning of the day 
came on which Arnold was to leave. 

He was resolved that there should be no sentiment at 
parting, and was concise almost to curtness in winding up 
with Mr. Trimble the business of his department. 

“ That, sir, is the last,” he said, giving into the solic- 
itors hands a deed on which he had been at work the pre- 
vious evening. 

“ Then I am afraid,” said Mr. Trimble, not unkindly — 
and, indeed, with feeling — “ that nothing remains but for 
us to shake hands and say good-bye.” 

“ Yes, sir, there is one thing before that, if you will 
allow me// said Arnold, a certain hard quality in his voice. 
“ Will you be so kind as to ask Mr. Jones to come here?” 

Mr. Trimble looked at him an instant, his eye cold again, 
and his lips pursed. “ What is this, Lee?” he asked 
dryly. 

“ I wish Mr. Jones to be present here a moment, sir, if 
you please,” answered Arnold, very self-contained. 

Now Trimble did not quite know what this boded. It could 
be nothing pleasant, though. Arnold scarcely wanted 
Jones to be present that he might embrace him before Mr. 
Trimble's eyes. He hated a scene, and halted a full half 
minute on the verge of a refusal; looked at Arnold again, 
and was met by two steadfast eyes, hardly to be denied; 
reached out an involuntary hand, and touched his bell. 

“ Mr. Jones — at once.” 

Jones, to be sure, was at hand, and smirked himself in 
on the instant. Trimble, thought he, was about to do him 
some honor in the face of the manager, cashiered. 

“ Mr. Lee wished you to be present here a moment." 

This was not what he expected, but he smiled with all 
Lis teeth, and laid the palm of one hand on the back of 
the other, and looked everywhere but at Arnold. 

“ This is perhaps a little unusual, but — what can I do 
for Mr. Lee?” he queried, mildly. 

“ You can tell Mr. Trimble the reason why I am leaving 
him,” broke out Arnold, turning with sudden passion on 
the lean thing, Jones. u You can tell him that he is dis- 
missing me, who have served him with my best, because 
you, with that snake's fang of yours, have spit poison into 
him against me. You can tell him this, and more. You 
can say that you have been seen crawling into my room 


174 


Ywixt love and duty. 


whenever I was out of it; that you have been heard to lift 
my desk and creep amongst my papers when it was open, 
and try it with false keys when it was locked. You can 
say it was you who found a missing paper forme in a place 
where no hand but yours could have dropped it. You can 
say that there are those in the office who have heard you in 
here, when I was away, sneaking and slandering and lying, 
that you might cheat yourself again into the favor yon 
lost by a blackguard^ act twelve months ago, and worm 
me out of the place you hated me for having. Tell him 
this if you dare V * 

It flowed out of Arnold like a lava torrent, and left him 
smoking. 

The ineffectual victim writhed, but remained voiceless, 
limp, the skin drawn tightly over his face, his pale eyes 
quivering. 

Mr. Trimble had kept silence, but glowered darkly. It. 
was on Arnold that he glowered, not on Jones. 

Jones made a giant effort, and recovered himself, but 
his tongue was dry and had to gather moisture before he 
could make it speak. 

“ Mr. Trimble, sir, I must leave this to you,” he said at 
length. “ You have heard these charges; if you bid me, I 
will answer them. ” 

“It is not necessary,” answered Trimble. “I have 
heard them, and dismiss them. I have sent Mr. Jones to 
your room, Lee, from time to time when you were out and 
I required some paper that was in your keeping. There is 
an answer to one of your charges. As to another of them, 
it presupposes that I was open to receive gossip of a mali- 
cious and slanderous sort about a clerk in my employ. 
That charge is therefore an insult to me. You" have not 
raised my opinion of you, Lee, by this display. I had 
hoped to shake hands with you at parting; I can not do as 
I had hoped. Mr. Jones, you will take the place of man- 
ager in my office. Lee, I wish you good -day.” 

Arnold bowed very slightly to Mr. Trimble, and quitted 
the room without a word. He took his hat and went out 
of the office. His connection with Trimble and Trimble 
was at an end. 

He went straight to his lodgings. There was nothing of 
the coward in his step. He felt stronger at that moment 


5 twixt love and duty. 175 

than lie had done for six months past. The elation of an 
anger which he felt to be just made his blood glow. 

a Fm glad I bruised Jones. ” This was his feeling. 
His head was as though he had drunk a cup of strong wine. 

At home, he paced his room awhile, every nerve spin- 
ning, bent on keeping himself at this pitch. 

“ No brooding, my young friend, if you please/'' he said, 
and felt as little like brooding as ever he had done in his 
life. 

He sat down and did two hours’ stout work with his pen. 
Then pocketed the manuscript and set off with it to McCal- 
lum at the office of the “ Woolsack ” in Mitre Court. 

“ Here’s the article you wanted, Mac/’ he said, produc- 
ing his roll. 

“ I want no airticles— from you or any mon. ” 

With such pithy brevity the knight of the quill delivered 
himself, lifting a hairy head, and glaring- at Arnold from 
beneath bushy eyebrows, out of deep-set eyes that had no 
speculation in them. 

Arnold threw the manuscript on the table and sat down 
and laughed. 

McCallum was as choke-full of humors as a hog’s back 
of bristles. 

“ There’s the article you wanted, Mac,” repeated 
Arnold, and settled himself comfortably. 

“ Oh, Daniel McCallum,” said the editor, apostrophiz- 
ing an outrageous caricature of himself which hung on the 
opposite wall, “ what a meeserable mon are you this day! 
Why did ye leave Glasgie, where ye might hev been meen- 
ister in a comely kirk, and banish yerself to siccan a brain- 
less toon as London! Ye did it for the good of mon kind, 
McCallum, and y’ are made a fule and a bankrupt for 
your pains.” 

“You must use that article in the next number, Mac, 
for I’m very hard up,” said Arnold. 

‘ ‘ Take it to the buttermon. I’ve no use for it. ” 

^Gammon! Don’t plague me, Mac. It’ll be the best v 
thing in the next ‘ Woolsack.’ ” 

“ There’ll no be a next 4 Woolsack/ ” growled McCal- 
lum. “ The ( Woolsack’s ’ as dead as the heart of Daniel 
McCallum.” 

“Dead? Stuff! Rubbish! What do you mean, Mac?” 

“ Just the little fuleish thing I say. The 4 Woolsack’s 9 


176 'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 

dead; and the heart of Daniel McCallum, she's dead as 
well." 

“ Do you really mean that the paper has come to a 
standstill, Mac?" exclaimed Arnold, aghast. 

“ Am I to repeat, and repeat, and repeat, with my 
mouth as dry as dust? I tell ye the ‘ "Woolsack's ' broke 
in twain; and the heart of Daniel McCallum, she's broke 
in twain also." 

“Whew — w — w! Another string gone !" And Arnold 
looked blanker than he had done when Mr. Trimble gave 
him his conge. 

“I'll take me back to Glasgie, and be a meenister in a 
comely kirk," said McCallum to himself, with no apparent- 
relish for the prospect. 

“ And I'll go home and study the ‘ Press Directory,' " 
laughed Arnold, “ for I must put this 6 copy ' in some- 
where. " 

“But first, me dear Lee," said McCallum, earnestly,, 
“ come wi' me to The Cheese and let us drink to Glasgie 
and the meenisters of kirks. There's a wee of siller in the 
till." 

“You forget, Mac, that I'm a teetotaler of six months' 
standing. Law wants a clearer head than journalism, you 
know." 

“ Journalism is a trade for loons; it's no for men with 
brains like mine. I'll be clear of it. I'll turrn teetotaler 
too — when I'm back in Glasgie." 

Arnold returned to his lodgings; a little of the sparkle 
out of him, but by no means dumpish. 

There was a letter waiting for him. He drew sweeter 
breath as he read it. It was from a solicitor of high stand- 
ing, whom he had met many times in the course of busi- 
ness, and who had more than once hinted that he could find 
a new berth for him when he tired of his old one. Arnold 
had some repute in the profession as a man who was likely 
to rise. 

His friend wrote that he understood Mr. Lee was about 
to leave Messrs. Trimble and Trimble, and suggesting 
that, if it were the case, Mr. Lee should call on Messrs. 
Seeling and White at his earliest convenience. 

“ Ha, ha!" laughed Arnold, “ a good man in law 
doesn't need to bite his finger-nails for employment, I can 
see. What do you say to this, Messrs. Trimble and Trim- 


'TWIXT LOYE AKD DUTY. 


17 r 


ble? Out of your office in the morning, into another and 
a better in the afternoon. Come, come! I'll be married 
to Marian in six months . 99 

He took up his hat to go at once to the office of Seeling 
and White. Decidedly the hat had grown a trifle seedy. 

u No matter!” thinks Mr. Great-heart, “ Seeling always 
wears a bad hat himself . 99 

He was shown in at once to Mr. Seeling 's private room. 
“ How do, Mr. Lee, how do? Take a seat, please, and 
excuse me one moment. So you are — eh? — they tell me 
you are — I hear that you are thinking of — there, Fve fin- 
ished — I understand that you are thinking of leaving Mr. 
Trimble. '' 

“ I have left him, sir.” 

“ Already! At short notice, then. I saw you there a 
fortnight ago . 9 9 

“ I left at a week's notice, sir . 99 

“Very short notice, that, was it not?” said Mr. Seeling, 
raising his eyes to Arnold's. 

“ At my own request,” answered Arnold. 

“ Ah, to be sure,” said Mr. Seeling, more confidently. 

“ Then, Mr. Lee, I am afraid I need not have troubled yon 
to eall on us. You have doubtless suited yourself else- 
where before you left Mr. Trimble.” 

“No, sir, I had not and have not. I am without any 
engagement at present.” 

“ Is that so?” said Mr. Seeling and brought himself to 
a pause. 

He knew that Mr. Trimble had held a high opinion of 
_ Arnold, and had lately given him promotion; and he under- 
stood that Arnold himself had always been well satisfied 
with his position in the firm. Time enough, though, to 
discuss this. 

“ Well, Mr. Lee,” he continued, “ it happens that we 
have a vacancy here at this moment. One of our staff — 
an excellent fellow — is on the point of leaving us to com- 
mence practice on his own account. He has held the post 
of manager with us for some time.” 

Arnold intimated that up to the time of his leaving he 
had held a similar post with Messrs. Trimble and Trimble. 

“ So I understood, Mr. Lee, so I understood. Well, we 
have been in communication with another gentleman, who 
is qualified, and brings excellent credentials. He is, I 


178 


*TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


should imagine, a little older than yourself; but, as you 
say, you have already discharged the duties of manager. 
We have come to no settlement with him, and I may say 
that, hearing you were about to make a change, neither 
Mr. White nor myself wished to decide until we had com- 
municated with you . 99 

Arnold bowed his thanks, and showed himself gratified. 

They had some further talk, professional all, and dry, 
^and Mr. Seeling decided in himself that Arnold should have 
the place. At length he said, 44 There is only one other 
question I need put, Mr. Lee, and that I am sure you will 
take as a matter of course. Your reason for leaving Mr. 
Trimble?” 

44 I could tell you at once,” replied Arnold, 44 but I think, 
on consideration, that I ought to refer you to Mr. Trimble 
himself . 99 

44 Quite so,” returned Mr. Seeling, perfectly satisfied. 

That would, no doubt, be the best.” 

They shook hands, and Mr. Seeling said that Arnold 
might expect to hear from him before the end of the week. 

Arnold went home to his lodgings. He jmssed his tail- . 
or's on the way, but decided that he would not order a 
new suit till the end of the week. 

On the day but one following he received a brief, formal 
note, not from Mr. Seeling, but from the firm. Messrs. 
Seeling and White had put themselves in communication 
with Messrs. Trimble and Trimble, and regretted that they 
felt unable to continue their negotiations with Mr. Lee. 

Arnold pondered the letter for twenty minutes. Should 
he accept defeat? Or should he strike a blow for himself? 
A blow, by all means! 

He went straight to Seeling and White, and was shown , 
into Mr. Seeling ’s room. With Mr. Seeling he remained 
in close talk for a good half-hour. 

At the end Mr. Seeling said: 44 1 am glad that you came, 
Mr. Lee; your explanation is wholly good; I am more than 
satisfied with it.” 

44 Then will you give me the managership?” 

44 1 am sorry a thousand times that that is impossible. * 
At Mr. White’s request we wrote last night to appoint the 
gentleman I named to you . 99 


'twixt love and duty. 


179 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

ME. TEIMBLE KEMEMBEKS ARNOLD. 

For a day or two Arnold's spirits were below their nor- 
mal level. Under three successive strokes of fate one can 
not choose but wince. 

But he was bound to recover, for he felt like a man on 
trial, who is all the better for a clear head and a sound di- 
gestion. He applied the salve of philosophy to his wounds, 
and argued that a little failure is necessary at the outset, 
that a man may find his level and his strength. If one 
offer had come so quickly, there would not be long to wait 
for another. He had the healthy, sanguine temperament 
which will not whine over the irrecoverable. 

Outwardly, to be sure, there was some change in Arnold 
since we saw him at the beginning of the year. He looked 
like a man who was on bad terms with his tailor. His 
best coat had been in daily wear these three months past, 
and it had seen a year's Sunday service before that. His 
face had lost something of its lighter look, but there was 
nothing of the specter about him yet. He would have 
taken it unkindly if you had suggested that he was not 
looking quite his old self. He had settled himself in a 
street not five minutes' walk from the office of Trimble 
and Trimble in Bedford Row — a street, nevertheless, in 
which one who courted obscurity might hide more effect- 
ually than in the crypt of St. Paul's. 

Robert Street, Bedford Row, lies at the back of and par- 
allel with Gray's Inn Road. At one end of it there is a 
mews for hansom cabs, which Arnold said would be a con- 
venient when he needed to go in a hurry to accept the next 
situation that offered. Robert Street is short and narrow, 
and of an almost forbidding cleanliness. Respectable 
commonplace poverty, with sentiment eliminated, is 
stamped on every house. At midday and in the afternoon 
it is as deserted as Goldsmith's village. Gray-headed, lean- 
featured landladies hover from time to time behind their 
window-blinds, and peer, like Fatima, for assistance in the 


180 


r TWIXT LOYE AXD DUTY. 


shape of lodgers; for lodgers are less plentiful than lodg- 
ing-houses in Kobert Street. 

Arnold had taken a furnished room in one of these ugly 
brown tenements at a rent of seven shillings a week, at- 
tendance included, which meant that when one had ex- 
hausted his lungs in calling down the back-stairs the land- 
lady shot out from somewhere in the basement, and said 
she was too busy to go up. 

To describe Arnold as comfortable in his new quarters 
would be to deprive him unfairly of some of the reader's 
sympathy. But there was nothing squalid in his surround- 
ings. He had less space at his disposal than is allotted to 
a first-class misdemeanant, and standing on tiptoe he could 
touch the ceiling with his head. There was no superfluous 
furniture in the room, and every article required careful 
handling. 

But George Sand, Balzac, and Victor Hugo worked in a 
garret, and “ Don Quixote " and the “ Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress " were written in a prison. Arnold remembered 
this, and was inclined to take himself to task for not hav- 
ing migrated at once to the top floor. True genius, he 
thought, would have scorned a lower flight. He consoled 
himself with the reflection that circumstances might com- 
pel him to go up higher in the course of a month or two. 
At the least, it was something to his credit that he had only 
one room. 

When he had breakfasted he locked away all the valua- 
bles he possessed, and went out, ostensibly for half an 
hour's stroll, but in reality at the bidding of his landlady, 
who had intimated on the morning after his arrival that 
she couldn't have no gents about when she was bed- 
making. 

Having taken his constitutional willy-nilly, he seated 
himself at his table, and spent the morning in writing. 
Most of his work was speculative at present, the untimely 
death of the “Woolsack" having cut the ground from 
under his feet so far as journalism was concerned. But he 
set himself to turn out a certain quantity of “ copy " every 
morning, and plied his pen from nine o'clock till one. 

He had finished his writing one morning about ten days 
after the earthquake x described in the last chapter, and, 
putting the result aside, sat down again to consider the 


*TWIXT loye and duty. 


181 


situation from a financial standpoint. He took out pencil 
and paper and* drew up his budget. It was by no means 
an unsatisfactory one. 

He had in hand a sum of nearly fifty pounds. The whole 
of this was to have been devoted to paying off the debt to 
Mr. Trimble, and the question Arnold submitted to him- 
self was the use to which this money should be put in the 
present condition of affairs, 
j Should he hand it over to his creditor? 

On full consideration, no. For to do this would be to 
beggar himself at a stroke, he being at the moment with- 
out a livelihood. 

Arnold considered that if he paid away this fifty pounds, 
which was capital and income both, he might be putting it 
out of his power to liquidate the remainder of the debt.' 

Better hold it, for at the present low rate of his expendi- 
ture it would keep him above water for some months to 
come. In that time something could and must be wrested 
from tjie hand of fortune, and once in the swim of profes- 
sional work again it would be easy to settle with Mr. Trim- 
ble. The v-ollapse of the chair he was sitting on interrupt- 
ed his seculations. 

He was on his knees putting it to rights when he became 
aware that some one had entered the room and was stand- 
ing behind him. 

Fie turned and saw Jones. 

Arnold's gorge rose; a feeling of unmitigated contempt 
surged in him. Here was a man to whom ten days ago he 
had given a semi-public chastisement. He had seen Jones 
writhe and grow white and his eyes shoot hatred under the 
whip; yet here was Jones, soft, suave, and smiling as 
though they had parted brothers. One would have hanged 
a spaniel had he proved so much a spaniel. 

“ Shall I kick Jones?" thought Arnold. No; why put a 
compliment on him? “ Have you any business with me?" 
he asked. 

Mr. Jones looked quite the genteel embassador. There 
was a summer-like air of prosperity about him; his tailor 
had made him an ideal manager. 

“ Let the general build of the coat be managerial, with 
just a dash of insouciance in the trimming," he had said 
to his tailor. 


182 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


“ Have you any business with me?” inquired Arnold. 

“ Business? Oh, dear boy! By! Never- business with 
any one outside the shop, you know. Touching up the 
furniture a little?” 

“ If you have no business with me, you can go,” re- 
turned Arnold. 

“ I take that as very unkind,” said Jones. “ If I were 
proud, I might come here to demand an apology; if I were 
disposed for litigation, I might come to threaten you with 
an action for libel — ” 

“ I'll meet you there when you like, Jones.” 

“ No, dear boy, you will not meet there; for I bear no 
malice, and ask nothing but friendship. I remember noth- 
ing. . You were a little outrageous the other day. ‘What 
of it? You were under the wind, and perhaps Trim had 
been a little too hard on you. I always told him so. I liked 
your spirit/ ' 

“You looked as if you liked it,” said Arnold. 

“Just so. I knew you'd think better of it whan you 
came to yourself. I never mind what a man says at those 
times. I'd have said the same myself. Not but what I 
think it was a pity, you know; it did get Trim's back up 
so. And Trim has such a standing in the profession; he 
can do a man no end of harm when he takes a spite against 
him.” 

Arnold thought of the abrupt termination of his nego- 
tiations with Seeling and White, but said : 

“ Mr. Trimble is a gentleman, Jones, which perhaps is 
more than could be said for some of his advisers. ” 

“ Meaning me? Oh, come, come! Why, I have not 
stopped talking to him about you since you left.” 

“ I don't doubt you.” 

“ Ah, but not in the way you mean. Why Trim's been 
blazing against you ever since. There's that little debt, 
you know. Not that I've let him say much to me about 
it; no affair of mine. But Trim will talk, don't you see, 
and he has let out that he thinks you don't mean to pay 
him. Now, if I were you, I'd do something in the humble 
way; sing small for awhile. It doesn't hurt; I've done it 
myself before now. ” 

“ You have,” said Arnold; “ you have, Jones.” 

“ Yes, and it's paid me, hasn't it? Who's the manager 


’TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


183 


now? You hold your head too high, dear boy. Now, just 
take my line for a bit. Write something pious to Trim; 
say you feel sure you were wrong in putting the blame on 
me. Trim would make it up with you in no time, and 
you’d find yourself in another berth in a week. ’ ’ 

“ Or, better still, your character will be cleared before 
Mr. Trimble. You know me better than that, Jones. 
What I said I meant, and I stand to it. As for. me, I can 
take care of myself. As for you, you had better improve 
that talent for singing small; for I fancy you’ll need it. 
You have got the whip-hand now; how you managed to 
get it I have told both you and Trimble. Keep it as long 
as you can. If Trimble sent you sneaking here to look 
after his money — though I don’t believe it — you can say 
that the debt is a good deal safer with me than it would be 
with you. And you can go.” 

4 4 Go’s the word, then; I hate to stay when I’m not 
wanted. Take note, dear boy, that I go like a friend, with- 
out reproaches. And — oh! wait a minute, though. A 
little present from Trim. He begged me to be sure and 
give it into your own hands.” 

So saying, Mr. Jones drew out of his pocket a good- 
sized white document, which he handed to Arnold, who 
perceived at a glance that it was of legal import. Arnold 
received it coolly. 

“ So this was your business, was it? You came to serve 
me with a writ,” he said. 

“ Always better that these things should be done in a 
friendly way, don’t you think?” smiled Mr. Jones. “ I 
thought it rather kind of Trim to let me take it. Giving 
me a chance of looking you up, and showing I bear no 
malice. Any answer?” 

“ If there is, I’ll send it. Now, will you go?” 

But Mr. Jones had already skipped away, and was heard 
as he went down-stairs complimenting the landlady on the 
neatness of her house — a compliment she must have found 
It difficult to swallow. 

Arnold opened and looked at Mr. Trimble’s present with 
a very strange feeling in his heart. He scarcely believed 
what his own eyes revealed to him. Had Trimble resolved 
.to crush him? And was this the method he had chosen? 

Here is a fac-simile of the document with which Jones 


184 


^TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


had been intrusted, and which that prince amongst friends 
had carried with so much good-will. 


1884.— T.— No. 002. 

In the High Court of Justice. 

QUEEN’S BENCH DIVISION. 


Between Rupert Trimble, 
and 


Plaintiff. 


Arnold Lee, 

Defendant. 

Victoria, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of 
Great Britain and Ireland, Queen, Defender of the Faith, To 
Arnold Lee, of 201 Robert Street, Bedford Row, in the 
County of Middlesex. We command you, That within Eight 
Days after the Service of this Writ on you, inclusive of the 
day of such Service, you cause an Appearance to be entered for 
you in an Action at the Suit of Rupert Trimble, of Bedford 
Rdw, in the said County. 

And take notice that in default of your so doing the Plaintiff 
may proceed therein, and Judgment may be given in your 
absence. Witness, ROUNDELL, EARL OF SELBORNE, 
Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain, the 20 th day of June, 
in the year of our Lord One thousand eight hundred and 
eighty-/<rar. 


N.B.— This Writ is to be served within twelve Calendar- 
Months from the date thereof, or, if renewed, within six 
Calendar Months from the date of the last renewal, includ- 
ing the day of such date, and not afterward. 

The Defendant may appear hereto by entering Appear- 

ance , either personally or by Solicitor, at the Central 
Office, Royal Courts of Justice, London. 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


185 


Statement of Claim. 

The Plaintiff’s Claim is for £250 for money lent. 

Particulars : 

£250 lent by Plaintiff to Defendant on the 29 th December , 1883. 

(Signed) RUPERT TRIMBLE. 

And the sum of £ : (or such sum as may be 

allowed on taxation) for Costs. If the amount claimed be paid to 
the Plaintiff within four days from the Service hereof, further pro- 
ceedings will be stayed. 


This Writ was issued by Rupert Tbimble, 
of 004, Bedford Bow , 

•whose Address for Service is as aforesaid, the said Plaintiff. 


This Writ was served by me at 201, Robert Street, Bedford Bow, 
on the Defendant Arnold Lee, on Tuesday, the 24 th day of June, 
1884. 

Indorsed the 25 th day of June, 1884, 

(Signed) J. T. JONES, 

(Address) 004, Bedford Roio. 

No need to tell Arnold what this meant. It was the first 
step to bankruptcy. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

habet! 

Arnold foresaw that there would be no escape. On to 
this rock of bankruptcy he must inevitably be driven. 

To avoid it by payment of the debt was impossible. Fifty 
pounds was all his fortune; he would be stripped of that, 
and when they had beggared him bankruptcy would follow; 
and bankruptcy marks the scutcheon of the professional 
man with the bar sinister. He had no choice but to wait 


186 


'iWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


the course of events. He knew what this would be, and 
winced in anticipation. 

Mr. Rupert Trimble meanwhile sat like a spider in the 
center of his web, and watched for a move on the part of 
the victim. He knew that Arnold could not free himself 
from the meshes he had put about him. 

The hand of Jones was at work in this ungenerous 
scheme. Left alone, Trimble would by and by have re- 
gretted his dismissal of Arnold. He would not have re- 
called him, but he would have helped him secretly, and in 
all probability would have flatly refused to accept further 
payment of the debt. 

Jones knew the sympathetic as well as the bilious moods 
of his principal, and meant that the latter should be up- 
permost until Arnold was fairly disposed of. He repre- 
sented that Arnold had probably brought his dismissal on 
himself with the deliberate intent of escaping payment of 
the debt by getting clear away from Mr. Trimble's power. 

“ He meant to move off quietly and set up in practice 
for himself under another name, sir," said Jones. 

By much falsification and malicious suggestion of this 
sort he kept Mr. Trimble's anger smoking against Arnold, 
and drew him on to set the law in motion. 

“ Such conduct deserves to be made an example of. I'll 
bring him to his senses," said the solicitor ; and the bank- 
ruptcy of Arnold was determined on. 

Arnold entered no appearance, and the eight days of 
grace went by. Mr. Trimble signed judgment, and exe- 
cution issued. 

By and by Arnold received notice of a petition in bank- 
ruptcy, filed by Mr. Trimble. Knowing the various steps 
in the process, he again decided that action on his part was 
useless. He could not ward off the final stroke, and had 
nothing to gain by delay. 

He saw himself gazetted. This was the beginning of 
publicity, and Arnold's cheeks tingled as he thought of the 
friends at home and abroad who would read his humiliation 
in print. They would all see it, he felt sure; they would 
be astonished, shocked, shamed; and the barren satisfaction 
of explanation was forbidden him. 

The sordid business of stripping and breaking the poor 
boy was now in full progress. He had to present himself 
before the official receiver to make a statement of his 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


187 


affairs. This was a bluff, good-natured person, who 
looked on bankruptcy as a more or less indispensable part 
of the practical education of man, and treated Arnold with 
some show of respect as a young gentleman who had begun 
his training in good time. 

“ Nothing like it to open a man’s eyes,” said the re- 
ceiver. “ But I don’t like to see them putting it off too 
long. Get it over soon, and you’re all the better for it. 
It’s like the measles. You have them as a baby, and they 
don’t amount to much. You have them twenty years 
rafter, and maybe they do for you. Liabilities two-fifty; 
assets five-and-forty. Do you want an allowance?” 

The receiver, when he has effectually spoiled the victim, 
is authorized to make him an allowance pending the wind- 
ing-up of his affairs; as they used to keep alive on bread 
and water certain prisoners who were destined to be tort- 
ured to death. 

Arnold, however, had reserved something less than five 
pounds for his immediate necessities, and declined the offer 
of an allowance. 

This the receiver thought a mistake, and told him so; 
but Arnold thanked his friend and said he had sufficient 
for present requirements. 

“ Very good; we’ll keep this little lot for the creditor. 
Only one creditor, by the way; that’s rather odd, isn’t it?” 

But Arnold was not disposed to gossip, and said he be- 
lieved there was no further business to be done. 

“ Not at present; you’ll get your notice of the public ex- 
amination, you know. ” 

The public examination — the stage of bankruptcy itself 
— was all that now remained to be gone through. 

Arnold awaited his summons, and received it in due 
course. He was to present himself at the office of the 
registrar in Portugal Street, there to undergo examination 
in the interests of the creditor. 

Arnold had been present at one of these inquisitorial 
functions not long since in behalf of Mr. Trimble, a princi- 
pal creditor then as he was the sole creditor now, and he 
did not relish the prospect. 

The public examination is a sort of legal bull-fight, on a 
small and vulgar scale, the defendant being in the place of 
the bull, while the gentlemen with the little biting darts 
are represented by the creditors. The show is presided 


188 


'TWIXT LOVE AKD DUTY. 


over by the registrar, who sees that the bull is properly 
goaded before he himself dispatches him. 

On the morning of the sacrifice Arnold received a letter 
from Marian, in answer to the one he had written her some 
time before. Marian had not replied as soon as she intend- 
ed, Gilbert Eeade had taken that plunge of his in the 
meantime, and her letter to Arnold had been penned amid 
very conflicting feelings. 

It was not the buoyant, girlish letter Arnold had been 
wont to receive from her in days gone by. Tenderness 
was not wanting, but the tone was restrained, and some- 
thing lacked which Arnold was puzzled to account for. 
She seemed to have written under nervous pressure of some 
sort, and spoke throughout of being anxious to return 
home as quickly as possible. Altogether the letter went 
some way to mystify Arnold, and the first reading gave him 
a vague feeling of disquiet. He was much more concerned 
about Marian than about his public examination. 

But he had no time then for a second reading, so, put- 
ting the letter in his pocket, he set off for Portugal Street. 

He wondered whether Mr. Trimble would meet him in 
person. The solicitor, as Arnold knew, had no taste for 
these affairs, and generally, when concerned in a case of 
bankruptcy, had been represented by one of his clerks. 
Arnold in this instance would have preferred to encounter 
Mr. Trimble himself. The registrar, whom Arnold had. 
met before in more agreeable circumstances, sat to receive 
him in a dingy room in his office in Portugal Street. He 
offered a word or two of polite condolence, which the 
official receiver, who was beside him, appeared to regard as 
superfluous. He on his part gave Arnold a pleasant nod, 
which seemed to say: “ Plenty of sport directly. Glad 
you've come early." 

The registrar said the weather looked more settled. 

Arnold said the glass was falling, and there would prob- 
ably be rain before night. 

The registrar said he was sorry to hear it. 

The official receiver said it did not seem to make much 
difference to business whether it rained or snowed or 
blowed. 

But just then the door opened and Mr. Jones ushered 
himself in with a smile in which sympathy for the defend- 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 189 

ant was blended with a consciousness of the rectitude of his 
own mission. 

“Iam here for Mr. Trimble/' said Mr. Jones, bowing 
to the registrar. “ Ah, Lee, how do? Mr. Trimble re- 
quested me to take the little matter in hand, though, of 
course, I would rather he had come himself. But we shall 
make it as simple and pleasant as possible, I am sure. " 

“ Mr. Trimble is a principal creditor, I believe?" said 
the registrar. 

“ He is the only creditor," replied Mr. Jones. 

“ The only creditor! This is unusual," said the regis- 
trar. 

“ Yes; rather a singular, and, in some respects, a pain- 
ful, case," observed Mr. Jones, in an under- tone, to the 
registrar, who merely bowed. 

The official receiver reported assets forty-five pounds,, 
against liabilities of two hundred and fifty pounds. 

“ Mr. Lee is or was in the service of Mr. Trimble, I 
think?" remarked the registrar. 

Arnold replied that he had been in Mr. Trimble's service 
until very recently. 

“ Is there any statement you would like to make, Mr. 
Lee?" inquired the registrar. 

Arnold answered that he had very little to say. “ Mr. 
Trimble," he continued, “ advanced me an amount of two 
hundred and fifty pounds some months ago for a private 
purpose, which I was unable to explain to him. There 
were misunderstandings between us subsequently in regard 
to the work of the office, and I left Mr. Trimble a short 
time since. I commenced the repayment of the loan with- 
in a week from the day of receiving it, and the repayments 
were continued up to the date of my leaving Mr. Trimble's 
office. I am without employment at the moment, but it 
was my intention to commence the repayments again as 
soon as I should be in a position to do so. I have nothing 
to add, except that these proceedings have taken me en- 
tirely by surprise, that I regard them as wholly uncalled 
for, and, I may say, unjust. " 

“ You have received forty-five pounds from Mr. Lee, I 
think you said, Mr. Green?" observed the registrar to the 
official receiver. 

“ Forty-five," replied that functionary. 

“ And you say, Mr. Lee, that you were making your re- 


190 


TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


payments regularly up to the time when you left Mr. 
Trimble?” 

“ Regularly,” answered Arnold. “ I was sacrificing the 
larger portion of my income with a view to clearing myself 
of the debt.” 

“ Then I confess,” said the registrar, turning to Mr. 
Jones as the creditor's representative — “ I confess that I do 
not understand these proceedings.” 

“ I can assure you in Mr. Trimble's behalf," replied 
Mr. Jones, “ that they were undertaken by him with the 
greatest unwillingness. I have a rather unpleasant duty 
to perform heTe, but it is a duty, and I must not neglect 
it. Mr. Lee, I should perhaps say, has chosen to hold me 
in some way responsible for the displeasure he incurred at 
Mr. Trimble's hands. Mr. Trimble is as fully convinced 
as I am myself that Mr. Lee's suspicions are unfounded, 
but the fact that (as I believe) he still cherishes them makes 
my position here one of some delicacy.” 

“ Pardon me if I suggest that your position here is not 
precisely the subject we are met to inquire into,” said the 
registrar. 

“Precisely," returned Jones. “But I thought it 
necessary to explain this much. I believe I have a right, 
in the creditor's interest, to put some questions to the bank- 
rupt?' ' 

“Yes, you may do so," answered the registrar; “but 
perhaps, in the circumstances, Mr. Lee will volunteer 
some further statement in reference to the loan. " 

“ I am afraid I can make no statement other than the 
one you have just had from me,” said Arnold. 

“ I really must, in Mr. Trimble's behalf, press for some 
explanation of the way in which this large sum of money 
has been spent,” said Jones. “ Mr. Trimble may fairly 
demand to know that it has not been squandered or used 
for any dishonorable object. ” 

“ It has not been squandered or used dishonorably,” an- 
swered Arnold. 

“ Then why need you hesitate to give the court some ac- 
count of the expenditure?” 

“ The money was used for a purely private purpose. I 
can not at present state what that purpose was. " 

“ Let me urge you, in your own interest, Mr. Lee, to 
say a little more,” put in the registrar. 


’twixt love and duty. 191 

“ Your way of living,” said Mr. Jones, 44 would that ac- 
count for any extraordinary expenditure?” 

“ My way of living has been that of a man whose income 
' covered, and no more than covered, the simplest and most 
necessary expenses.” 

“ You are not addicted, I believe, to — to gambling, for 
example?” 

44 I do not gamble.” 

44 And I think I may say that you have always borne a 
character for sobriety?” 

44 I have deserved it.” 

44 Then the 4 private 9 object you speak of,” persisted 
Jones, 44 can scarcely be described as a personal one?” 

44 I did not use the money for myself.” 

44 Now, really, I think you ought, in fairness to Mr. 
Trimble, to volunteer some explanation of your expendi- 
ture of his loan. It was an act of kindness on his part,, 
you must admit, to advance this sum of money with noth- 
ing more than your personal security for its repayment.” 

44 It was a great act of kindness, but I can only repeat 
that I did not ask for the money for myself. ” 

44 And you will tell us no more than this?” 

4 4 1 am not able to say more. ” 

Mr. Jones made a gesture which signified that he had 
done the best he could with a very bad case, and must leave 
the rest to the registrar. 

That functionary looked annoyed. The proceedings 
puzzled him, he said. The case appeared to be a painful 
one, but the creditor was entitled to the protection of the 
’ court, and he could not think that the defendant had given 
as full an explanation as the creditor’s representative was 
justified in demanding. In these circumstances he had no 
alternative but to adjourn the matter. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

WHAT NEXT? 

So it has ended pretty well after all? The matter is ad- 
journed, the registrar is kindly disposed, and means to give 
Arnold another chance of clearing himself. At the next 
meeting he will be able to show the iniquity of the whole 
proceedings, and they will not make a bankrupt of him at 
all. 


192 


TWIXT LOVE AX'D DUTY. 


The reader who reasons thus is entitled , from the stand- 
point of the official receiver, to a certain amount of sym- 
pathy, for he has clearly not been through the Court of 
Bankruptcy, and his education is therefore incomplete. 

Arnold knew much better than this. The matter was 
not really adjourned at all; it was, to every intent and pur- 
pose, ended. 

“ Adjournment ” is the most dread sentence a bankrupt 
can receive. It means that the registrar is not satisfied 
with the defendant's explanation, and declines to give him 


a certificate. 

Now, bankruptcy, which means, literally, the breaking 
of one's “ bench," is a bad state in all conscience, but 
bankruptcy minus a certificate is seven times worse. In 
some cases it signifies nothing less than ruin; it signified 
nothing less than this to Arnold, for it not only put a 
brand upon him — it deprived him besides of the right and 
power to practice in his profession. He was a dishonored 
man, and a man whose right hand had been severed. 

Thus effectually had Mr. Trimble, aided and abetted by 
Jones, contrived to lay Arnold in the dust. 

When trades-unions were young and savage, men who 
transgressed their laws were blown up with gunpowder or 
otherwise physically corrected. How much more .refined a 
mode of chastening your enemy to make him pass through 
the Court of Bankruptcy in circumstances which shall in- 
sure his not receiving a certificate? 

Some slight formalities having been disposed of, Arnold 
quitted the office of the registrar and returned to his lodg- 
ing. His mind was dulled, but not so much so that he 
failed to realize the completeness of his ruin. Had he not 
steeled his heart, he would have sat down and cried like a 
child. Fame, fortune, and future had been cut from him 
at a stroke. 

But just now he thought nothing of these: he thought 
only of Marian, between whom and himself the registrar in 
bankruptcy had set a deep and impassable gulf. He sat 
down and wrote a letter to his uncle, giving as full an ac- 
count of his trouble as he felt justified in committing to 
paper. He added that, until he had completely righted 
himself, his friends at home would not hear of him again. 

What step the next? That he really did not know. 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


193 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A GLIMPSE OP DEATH. 

Gilbert Readers proposal had been nothing less than 
a shock to Marian. Common opinion is pleased to hold 
that all proposals of marriage are regarded as compliments 
by the women who receive them. But Marian was at first 
disposed to consider the proposal of Gilbert Reade in the 
light almost of an offense. 

Not for long, however, did she succeed in keeping him 
before her in the character of an offender. He had borne 
himself too courteously for that! she could not but admit 
it. Was it her fault, then, that he had proposed to her? 
She supposed that it must have been. Thus Marian rea- 
soned in child-like and most untutored fashion. 

The truth is, she was content with the world as she found 
it. She was anxious only to get back to her books and her 
work and be strong enough to resume her old life in the 
cloistered quietude of some purely feminine society. This 
was her first expedition beyond the home circle, except 
Where there were none but those of her own sex — hard- 
working students to whom (professedly, at all events) mas- 
culine attentions were an object of mild satire. 

It was not until Reade had quitted Madeira that the 
affair of the proposal began to take full effect on her mind 
and nerves. It is trivial to say that she could not banish 
it from her thoughts; of course she could not, and her 
thoughts about it vexed her, whatever the form they took. 
When she thought of herself she was vexed with herself; 
when she thought of Reade she was vexed with him. She 
had wakeful nights, disagreeables of rare occurrence since 
the excitement of the glorious student times which she 
would give the world to be tasting again. 

But events such as.^ Readers declaration are not to be 
passed over in a day or two, and no more thought of; they 
color the life. It is not as when a stream leaps a rock and 
flows on; it is as when a stream touches some foreign run- 
let, the stain can not be wiped out. When incidents like 
this are done, they can not be undone. 

Marian had shown neither surprise nor emotion when 

7 


194 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


Mrs. Warren told her, late on the night of the proposal, 
that Gilbert had suddenly resolved (that concern of busi- 
ness being no doubt more pressing than he had pretended) 
to return to the Cape by the steamer leaving the next 
morning. She eat both her breakfasts in her own room 
that morning, merely sending Reade, through Mrs. War- 
ren, a polite message regretting the necessity of his sudden 
departure, and conveying her thanks for the kindness he 
had shown her during his stay. 

This was cold. But Mrs. Warren, she thought, knew 
nothing of what had happened at the Twenty-five Fount- 
ains on the previous day, and she considered it necessary 
to keep that good lady mystified. A little more wisdom of 
the world would perhaps have shown her that this kind of 
conduct was the likeliest to open Mrs. Warren's eyes. 

Gilbert also sent a message — but he did more; he sent a 
letter with it. Letter and message were transmitted 
through the ever-faithful chaperon. 

The message was brief as Marian's own. The sender 
thanked Marian for her thanks, and regretted that he had 
not had the pleasure of making his adieus in person. 

The letter, which was written in simple, earnest lan- 
guage, plunged at once into the matter which had made an 
epoch in the lives of both. It was wholly candid. Gilbert 
said that he had been near her three weeks, and known no 
impulse of love. Admiration he had felt from the first, 
for he had seen that she was fitted to be the companion of 
any true man whatsoever. Had he always borne himself 
toward her as he should have done? Peihaps not; but un- 
til he met her he had. known few women, and finding that 
hers was an intellect more than feminine, he had treated 
her as a man treats a man, his equal. Insensibly, and 
against his will, he had grown to love her. Insensibly, be- 
cause he knew not when his love had begun, nor whether 
nor how long it had lain dormant in him. He knew only 
that a day came when love for her asserted itself as his 
master-passion, since when he had found no rest until the 
words he spoke to her the afternoon before had forced 
themselves from his lips. Against his will, because, like 
her, he had never desired to marry; but — and here the 
writer broke into tfiat half-lyrical strain of passionate 
pleading which sweeps the soberest souls at such moments. 
A close- written page in this vein (he had sat up half the 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


195 


night over the letter) and then, the wild fit passing, he be- 
came coherent again. He would not, for he could not, 
believe that she had finally dismissed him. He left her, 
not because her words had any power to change his feel- 
ings, but because it must be a pain to him to be near her 
and not speak again what she had forbidden him. He left 
her; would she ever bid him, would she ever suffer him, to 
return? 

The letter was read and put away. A half shaped 
thought rose in the form of a question — “ Had she treated 
him quite fairly?” But the answer came on the instant. 
“ Yes! a thousand times yes;” for she had neither encour- 
aged nor trifled with him, and she had fairly answered him. 
Yet it was well, she thought, that she was saved the neces- 
sity of replying to his letter. 

Gilbert gone, Marian and Mrs. Warren resumed their 
quiet, vacant life of former weeks. But Marian had ceased 
to be content with it; she exerted herself bravely to insure 
the re-establishment of her health, beginning to hunger 
once more for him. 

Mrs. Warren humored her, but waited in secret for Gil- 
bert's return. 

Of course they missed him. Of course Marian could not 
pluck from her memory the words he had spoken, nor be- 
come oblivious of the letter he had written. She read the 
letter more than once — her life was almost isolated. The 
sentences began to grow into her mind, to link themselves 
with her thoughts. Often they recurred, and as they took 
image before her she conceived a curiously inconsequential 
fancy, which seemed to run side by side with the utterances 
of Gilbert Reade. 

“ What would Arnold say to him? What would he 
think of me?” 

Mrs. Warren's words about Arnold had adhered in her 
memory. This thought was followed by another, of such 
idyllic simplicity as this, pictured rather than embodied: 
“ Dear Arnold! He never would have presumed as this 
stranger has done. ” 

But the stranger was not a stranger; the maidenly mind 
did not so entirely dismiss him. 

And Mrs. Warren? How did she comport herself these 
delicate times? 

With all her ardent desire that Gilbert should succeed. 


196 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


she was not without admiration for the courage and inde- 
pendence of Marian. She contrived, by here and there a 
casual word, to let Marian know that she was aware of 
what had transpired, whereat Marian wondered in herself 
how she could have been foolish enough to supjjose that 
she had kept or could keep such a matter from the intelli- 
gence of her chaperon. 

Their friendship suffered nothing; indeed, new links 
were added, and be sure that Mrs. Warren was faithful to 
the cause of the absent Gilbert. 

Somehow, too, she obtained assistance from Three Dykes,, 
the lieutenant in his letters at this time becoming very em- 
phatic in his recommendations to Marian to be guided en- 
tirely by Mrs. Warren^s counsel as to the length of her stay 
in Madeira, on no account to think of returning until she 
was completely recovered. 

In this way two or three weeks elapsed, a certain restless- 
ness and vague uneasiness growing all the while in Marian. 
She began to chafe against the forced inaction of her life 
in this golden drowsy land. She was strong again, and 
missed the energy of the days when Gilbert lieade guided 
all their movements. Should she take horse and ride? 
No, she had no companion, and was less fond of solitude 
than she had been. The air was odorous with the breath 
of flowers; should she sit all day in the garden? No, its. 
beauty wearied her. 

She felt that she was being spoiled by idleness, yet here 
she could not do the work she craved. But for this, too, 
she was angered with herself. “ A man would find some 
craft even here, but I sit all day moping like a dull school- 
girl.” 

In recent letters from Three Dykes she found another 
cause of worry. They lacked a certain cheeriness which 
until now had been their dominant note. They mentioned 
nothing unpleasant, yet they left something unmentioned. 
What this was she could not think. 

What was it? Well, the truth is that for one whole 
month there had been a careful avoidance of the name of 
— but let it pass, for Marian merely did not understand it. 

Presently Mrs. Warren began to hint with more or less 
directness that the times were out of joint since Gilbert 
went away. Marian admitted that she missed the expedi- 
tions to the mountains. 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


197 


One day they came down-stairs and found their gentle- 
man breakfasting in the common room of the hotel. He 
was returning to England, he said, and had landed from 
the steamer to wish the ladies good-morning. 

“ Where is your luggage?” was Mrs. Warren's first in- 
quiry after she had kissed him. 

‘ ‘ On the steamer. Aunt Susan. " 

“ Then let it be sent for at once, for you certainly can 
not return until we do. '' 

So Gilbert was installed again in his old quarters at the 
hotel. 

Marian received him with a kind graciousness, deter- 
mined not to be lackadaisical. Something was due to 
politeness, something to past good offices, something to 
Mrs. Warren's kindness. Gilbert was entertained on the. 
same footing as before. 

As day followed day he thought that his suit made no 
progress; and visible progress it did not make. But what 
had gone before had given a new color to their relations, 
and it was certain that Marian showed no disposition to 
deny him her society because she had declined to marry 
him. 

He was a lover who wooed with other than the common 
arts; indeed, he did not now talk to her of love at all. He 
seemed rather to have taken the part of old friend and 
companion. Ever at her side when she wanted him, ab- 
sent when she fancied she did not; quiet, and imperturba- 
bly good-humored; and in time he began to influence her 
mind, if not her heart, and she grew to feel the sense of 
dependence, which is dangerous. 

As for him, though he made no show of what he felt, he 
felt keenly. He had drifted into love, not knowing whither 
his bark was bearing him, half jesting at the notion that 
he could ever drop anchor at that port. And now to be in 
it, and find no rest! To find no rest, and yet not be able 
to escape from it! 

To change the metaphor, it was the Tantalus drama 
played again. The cup ever at his lips, but never a taste 
of the nectar. Ever at his lips, for she was always soft 
and pleasant to him, and — since two people can not hold, 
quite the same intercourse as before, after one has made a 
confession of love to the other — there was now an intimate 
something between them, which discovered itself in subtle 


198 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


ways. He had showed her his heart; there had been talk 
of love between them: if friendship be resumed after these 
things, it must be friendship and something more. But 
this something more — what was it? 

It might be akin to love, but love's self it was not. 

It was this indeterminate, elusive character of their rela- 
tions which irked and wearied him. 

Surely never woman was so hard to win as this! 

Sometimes he doubted her, thought that she was play- 
ing with his love, as in a wayward mood she would undo 
and scatter the petals of a flower he had plucked for her. 
Was she fair to him. 

Yes; he could not call her unfair, for she never flirted 
with him, never tempted him by look or word to renew 
his declaration. 

So, blind as Eros himself, he followed without nearing 
her; as in a wood by night one follows the errant fires of 
the will-o'-the-wisp. 

But was it not possible to compel her to accept him or 
reject him? Alas! has she not rejected him already? 
What but her softness prevents her from rejecting him 
again? 

But there is no standing still with any of us; one goes 
forward or one retreats. Now, she had not retreated from 
the attitude she had taken toward him soon after his re- 
turn — an attitude of honest liking, of admiration for his 
simple, strong fidelity to her. So the time came when she 
must needs go beyond this, and then, not seen by him, 
and seen scarcely at all by herself, her heart began to ex- 
pand, and she felt herself drawn toward him. 

Against this feeling she struggled. She fell in sore 
doubt. She did not know her own heart; she did not know 
the way of duty. She had read Arnold's letter more than 
once of late, and had begun dimly to apprehend a mean- 
ing in it which she had not found there at the first. 

Was Arnold in love with her? 

Had Arnold been there in Reade' s place, had he wooed 
her as Reade had done, he might ere this have won her. 
But Arnold was many hundred miles away in London, sore 
troubled, though of this Marian knew nothing. Reade 
was in her sight continually; his the voice that breathed in 
her ear all day, his the hand that never ceased to wait upon 
her. 


’twixt loye *and duty. 


199 


The time drew near for them to return to England, and 
Gilbert was to take them on a last expedition. 

They went to Santa Anna, which a wise traveler had 
said seemed to him more like a realization of the poet's 
Arcadia than any other place he ever saw. The rare earth 
of Santa Anna yields increase of corn, vines, yams, and 
sugar-canes. A people simple and peaceful as the first 
Arcadians occupies this high-perched Eden of Madeira, 
tilling the soil, and living in the strangest huts, roofed in 
with long-ridged thatch, sheltered by bamboo fences, and 
smothered in fern, fuchsia, and geranium, which cover the 
ground and embroider the edges of the smooth red paths. 

Pico Ruivo, “the mountain-citadel of Madeira," rises in 
the background, glancing at the sea from a cloudy height 
of six thousand feet. 

To Pico Ruivo Marian was bent on ascending. Mrs. 
Warren said yes, if she willed it, but declined the ascent 
for herself. They were comfortably lodged for a day or 
two in the house of that courteous Portuguese gentleman 
who, recovering from “ the ignoble melancholy which 
springs from pecuniary embarrassment " (the phrase is 
Lord Beaconsfield's), became wise in his day, and turned 
his country house into a hotel. Mrs. Warren preferred to 
remain here until the return of the explorers, “If," she 
added, with a shudder — “ if you ever do return." Gilbert 
assured her they would be back to dinner. 

The horses, with their heels well turned up, and large 
nails projecting from every shoe, climbed valiantly; part 
of the ascent they had nothing better than a steep cattle- 
path, then not even a bridle-path, but had to pick a rugged 
way from crag to crag. Finally a point was reached when 
there was nothing for it but to dismount and leave the 
horses in the keeping of one of the guides. 

From this, with one guide , in front, they went on - 
together. 

“ Take my hand," said Gilbert, for the path was almost 
impassable — yet a level one, thought the lover, in compari- 
son with the path to her affections. “ If I had the tongue 
of Martin Tupper," said he, presently, “ I could bring out 
some fine analogies respecting this path and the path of 
life." 

“ Mr. Tupper is a very good man; I will not hear him 
decried," she answered. 


200 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


“ I ask his pardon — and yours,” said Gilbert. 

Passing through a cleft in the ridge, they climbed the 
straight sides of Ruivo, winding amongst enormous heath- 
trees, lonely and gray with years. 

The last rock was topped at length, and the guide, turn- 
ing about, said, in tones subdued to a fine impressiveness, 
“ Pico Ruivo!” 

But they could see nothing, so thick the clouds that cur- 
tained them on every side. 

“ Cloud no break themself to-day; go home," said the 
guide, who had breakfasted early. 

“ WeTl give the clouds a chance,” replied Gilbert, and 
appeased the guide with his brandy-flask, who said, when 
he had partially drained it, that the cloud would certainly 
“ break themself in quarter hour.” 

And in less time than that the clouds began slowly to lift 
from beneath; dark forms of rock and mountain grew into 
shape, the shoulder of a high peak came in view, spurs and 
jagged ridges; then the clouds above dissolved, and there 
came a glimpse of sky intensely blue, and Ruivo and the 
solemn heights around him seemed to unveil and rear their 
heads, and the deep silence made their grandeur as awful 
as it was majestic. The effect of the slow dispersing of 
the clouds, bringing into sight first one and then another 
stupendous shape, made it seem as they were witnessing a 
new birth of the world. Around rose all the mountain- 
fortresses of the island, some of them reft from top to base 
by fathomless ravines, and an ocean of sapphire rolled on 
every side, with fire-tipped clouds upon its surface. A few 
moments this scene lay naked and sublime before their 
eyes, then the cloud-curtain fell again, gray, close, and 
cold as the mists in the Valley of the Shadow. 

“ After this/ ' said Marian, in a quiet tone, turning as 
she spoke to Reade, “ I shall better realize the poetrv of 
Job.” 

They woke the guide and began their descent. 

Coming to where they had left the horses in the keeping 
of guide So. 2 (though the horses were keeping the guide, 
for he also slept) they mounted, and took a slightly differ- 
ent route from that by which they had ascended. It was 
the delicatest motion; Marian had to cling to the pommel 
of her saddle to save herself from falling over the horse's 
head. 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


201 


Presently they were scaling the sharp side of one of the 
lower heights, and Marian's horse was a length in advance 
of Gilbert’s. Passing through a cut in the summit, the 
horse suddenly reared and pawed the air in terror. He 
stood with his rider on the brink of a precipice, beneath 
which the sea spread, two thousand feet below. The lives 
of horse and woman were in the hand of God. 

Marian flung up her hands screaming. Her head reeled, 
and she fell back half fainting in the saddle. A second, 
and her foot would have slid from the stirrup and she 
would have toppled headlong into the sea. 

Gilbert, whiter than ashes, dug the spurs into his horse 
and was beside her. She fell moaning into his arms and 
was saved. Such a prayer of thanksgiving as men breathe 
but once or twice in their lifetime glowed on his lips. 

She awoke to consciousness, and Gilbert’s arms were 
round her. He bathed her forehead with brandy, and 
kissed her face and hands, his eyes streaming. 

“ It is you who have saved me," she said, smiling faintly. 

The guides, white almost as the just-rescued girl, chat- 
tered under their breath like apes, and said their Lady of 
the Mount had wrought another miracle. 

Gilbert, in a kind of ecstasy of fervor, bared his head and 
thanked God aloud for the safety of the woman he loved. 
The guides, not knowing his words, but seeing that he 
prayed, fell on their knees and told their beads in trem- 
bling. Marian lay motionless, and her lips framed in silence 
after him the words he spoke to Heaven. 

All this passed in a few moments, and the tension of the 
scene was over. 

“ How shall I ever repay you?" she asked, when, walk- 
ing beside her, his arm still clasping her, the guide leading 
his horse by the bridle, they were slowly going on their 
way again. 

Gilbert was silent. There was but one answer he could 
make, and when she realized it she also became silent. 
Nothing else was spoken, and by and by they entered under 
the chestnut groves of Santa Anna. 

A fortnight later they were on their way back to Eng- 
land. 


202 


YVVIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

HOME AGAIN. 

England dawned upon the travelers with the dawn of 
the August morning. When they went below they had 
given the stewards and stewardesses the strictest orders to 
call them as soon as land was sighted. Marian, however, 
did not need a call from the stewardess. Voices more 
sympathetic called her through the night. If she had left 
England with the apathetic senses of one who may live or 
die, she was returning instinct with higher life, with quick- 
ened feelings, with mingling and conflicting hopes and 
doubts, and wistful forecasts as vague as luminous. 

As Marian came on deck the boards were still drenched 
with the dew and the spray, and the nocturnal curtain of 
mist still hung lightly over the heaving waters. A ray of 
the morning sun fell along the deep, penetrating and light- 
ing up the mist, and as she bent her eyes toward the east- 
ern horizon, she heard the officer who was on the bridge 
exclaim, half mechanically, half gladly, “ Land!” 

Marian did not sight land so readily as the practiced sea- 
man. Mists hung between sea and sky, and the sun only 
dissolved them, for land was very near indeed, 
ship was really in the offing of Plymouth Sound, 
harbor which English mariners have somehow 
held especially dear for centuries. When full daylight 
came upon the sea, still subdued, sublime, and intensely 
beautiful, as it changed from the gray and the green of 
dawn to the radiant glow of morning, the calm light re- 
vealed the perfect picture of the Sound, with its wooded 
steeps, on the one hand tree-clad to the very edge of the 
sea, and its limestone heights on the other, overgrown also 
with verdure sheer down to the margin. Right ahead rose 
the green Hoe, with its background of picturesque white- 
fronted mansions. Beyond, the town glimjised up bright 
and clear, and in the far distance lay the heights of Dart- 
moor. 

How the heart quickens as it recognizes dear familiar 
scenes, to which it has silently yearned through long inter- 
vals of absence! What does it matter whether the emotions 


gradually 
The good £ 
that noble 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


203 


we cherish most have centered upon broad wildernesses or 
flowery dells! The heart has no choice but to respond to 
the influences it has dimly cherished in memory. Those 
breezy and spreading wastes, and deep coombes dark with 
foliage, Marian had all-unconsciously sighed for even under 
the changeless sunshine of Madeira. Now that she saw and 
knew them she was glad. Before she remembered her sur- 
roundings again Mrs. Warren and Gilbert had discovered 
her. 

As the ship steamed buoyantly in by the western chan- 
nel of the breakwater — her poop alive now with the home- 
coming passengers — they saw the fishing-fleet bearing up 
from the south-west, they heard the rattle of ropes and 
creaking of blocks across the water from the harbor, and 
they sighted, besides, another steamer, which seemed to be 
making straight for the breakwater, as she rounded the 
arm of that gigantic mole. That was the tender from the 
shore to take them “home/'’ as Marian put it; but they 
had barely come to anchor before this other steamer was 
alongside. 

Two figures Marian, with a cry of joy, recognized on the 
deck of the tender: the lieutenant, in his long blue coat, 
anxiously peering for the first sight of her; and beside him 
the big frame and fine mahogany countenance of Parson 
Paul, his hat securely tied down with a party-colored 
pocket-handkerchief. 

“ Oh, Uncle Lemuel, I am so glad — so glad to come 
home!” p 

“ Not more glad, my darling, than I am to welcome 
you;” and the lieutenant held her to him and let her cry 
freely down the high collar of his cloak. 

Parson Paul shook hands heartily with Mrs. Warren and 
Gilbert, whom he had never seen before, and said that a 
room was prepared for Gilbert at the Vicarage at Three 
Dykes. It had already been arranged that Mrs. Warren 
should accompany Marian on a visit to the Vineyard. 

Gilbert said that it would give him great pleasure to ac- 
cept Mr. BrunskilPs invitation, if he might be allowed to 
do so in a few days' time. His first duty was in London. 

The vicar bade him get through his business and join 
them at Three Dykes as quickly as possible. By this time 
they were landed at Plymouth, Gilbert with them, as he 
had decided to complete the journey by train. 


204 


'twixt love and duty. 


Parson Paul was wearing a new coat, which he very well 
knew would he wasted on his parishioners. So he proposed 
they should spend the early part of the day in the town, 
and start for Three Dykes in the afternoon. 

4 Streets level here— no climbing,” he said to Mrs. War- 
ren, who fell in with tne proposal at once, but said it was 
a pity they had no hammocks in Plymouth. 

The vicar did the honors of the town, and spent ten 
days' income in lunching the party at the Royal Hotel. 
When the sun was slanting they set out for Three Dykes, 
and at tea-time they reached the Vineyard. 

Home again, for Marian! It was the yellow prime of 
autumn, when the leaves were melting into gold, and the 
rose-petals were blown about the grass, and apple-trees were 
red with the fast-ripening fruit. 

. 44 Welcome home, my love!" said the lieutenant, as he 
kissed his niece, in the porch; 44 and God be thanked for 
your recovery!” 

Marian shivered a little at those words, for words like 
them had been spoken in her half-conscious ear a few days 
before, when death had stared her in the face. 

44 Oh! there are red roses on my own particular bush," 
she exclaimed, looking out through the open window. 
44 After tea I shall gather them. Mrs. Warren, come and 
look at my rose-bush. I planted it myself. It is a Duke 
of Edinburgh; I have taken three first prizes with it." 

44 1 have one like it in Bays water,” said Mrs. Warren. 

How sweet that small garden looked/ in its mellow 
autumn dressing; and the hills beyond, softened by the 
setting sun! The cloud- wrapped peaks of Madeira were 
grand, and beautiful the sapphire sea, and wonderful the 
glory of the flowers spread upon the fields; but the soft 
loveliness of the garden she had played in from a child was 
what she had yearned for across the sea. 

Home again, and with full strength; hopes renewed, am- 
bitions rekindled. Did she ever think of that scene on the 
precipice, when Gilbert, with a woman's tears on his face, 
held her in his arms, and thanked God aloud that it had 
been given to him to snatch her from death? We have 
seen that it crossed her mind but a moment ago. 

Did she ever think of what she had said to Gilbert then, 
and of the silence he had given her for answer? Balzac 
has a line somewhere touching certain words written when 


'twixt loye and duty. 


205 


the heart burns within, faithful expressions of a moment 
of passion or of mental exaltation, mats non pas le sens 
general do nos caracteres. It is certain that when she 
almost bade Gilbert ask what he would of her, she meant 
it. Suppose, then, he should ask something of her on a 
day to come? 

“ My dear, are you not going to take Mrs. Warren to 
her room?” 

“ Do not disturb her, lieutenant; I can take my bonnet 
off here. I would not spoil her first reverie for another 
cup of — thank you, I will. The milk is better than the 
Madeira cream. By the way, was it cream we had there? 
I don't remember to have seen a milch-cow in the island." 

“ I saw one, Mrs. Warren.” 

“ One cow could not supply an island with cream, dear. 
I must write to the manager of the hotel about it; we may 
have been almost poisoned the whole time we were in Fun- 
chal, without knowing it." 

“ If there was one cow, there w r ere probably others,” 
said Marian, quitting her seat in the window, and taking 
her place at the table. 

“ There may have been, of course; but I did not see 
them, which is certainly strange. I almost begin to regret 
that we went there. My first thoughts, you may remem- 
ber, dear, were of Torquay.” 

“It is the best watering-place in England,” said the 
vicar. “ There's an old fishing fellow there choke-full of 
the finest smugglers' tales I ever heard. Why, it was 
touch-and-go with his father once whether the coast-guard 
would have him! Up the beach and over the rocks like a 
wild cat, and the bullets singing all the while like Water- 
loo! Whew! we live in feeble times;'' and the vicar re- 
lapsed into silence, and fell to contemplating an old fowl- 
ing-piece of the lieutenant's, which stood, with his walk- 
ing-stick, in a corner. 

“ Why, there's a letter of Arnold's on the chimney- 
piece!” exclaimed Marian, and jumped up to fetch it. 

A look of alarm came into the face of the lieutenant, 
and the vicar, glaring at him with an expression which 
said “ Stupid fellow! what made you put it there under 
her very nose?” left his seat suddenly, and, on pretense of 
getting the letter for her, contrived to overturn a whole 


206 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


pile of letters which stood on the chimney-piece, and, in 
picking them up, to slip Arnold's into his pocket. 

“ As odd a disappearance as ever I knew," said the old 
man, fumbling with the letters on the carpet, and thinking 
what a conjurer the world had lost in him. “It's no mat- 
ter," he added, looking up; “I'll have it for you. It has 
slipped away somewhere here. Take Mrs. Warren upstairs, 
my dear. If it were not for Lem and me she would have 
asked for bed half an hour since : she makes an early start 
with me to-morrow to see the schools." 

“ Well, I really shall be glad to get into a steady bed 
again," said Mrs. Warren. “ And, Marian, you ought to 
go too. You know you have not slept three hours together 
since we left Madeira." 

“Away with you both, then," said the vicar. “At 
least, we'll read prayers first. Where's the Bible, Lem? 
In the next room? Come, then; we’ll go there. Mrs. 
Warren, by your leave, ma'am;" and with Arnold's letter 
safe in his pocket, the vicar gave his arm to Mrs. Warren, 
and led the way to the next room. 

After prayers Mrs. Warren went to bed like a lamb, and 
Marian was persuaded to follow her, but said that when 
Arnold's letter was found it should be sent up to her. 

The vicar and the lieutenant were left together down- 
stairs. 

“You will be sixty-one or sixty-two years old come 
goose-killing time, and you might as well be six or seven. 
Where are your wits, man?" said the parson to his friend, 
who was sufficiently crestfallen. 

“ It certainly was very careless of me," replied the lieu- 
tenant; “ but what are we to do now? She will be sending 
down for the letter presently." 

“ Very good, very good! You have other letters, 
haven't you? Send her up one of the old ones." 

So the lieutenant sent Phoebe upstairs with a letter of 
ancient date, which Marian returned in a few minutes, 
with an apology to the vicar for having given him so much 
trouble; she had read the letter before, she said. 

Parson Paul indulged in a wink and another cup of tea. 

But the lieutenant looked less content. 

“ You see, Paul, it cannot be kept from her any longer," 
he said. “ Everything must be told now." 

“ Very well; but it must be done in proper style. You 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


207 


will tell her yourself, of course ?” replied Parson Paul, who 
had begun a second tea with an excellent appetite. 

“ I dare say you could do it a good deal better, Paul,” 
said the lieutenant, wistfully. 

“ I dare say I could not,” answered Paul, swallowing 
half an egg at a gulp. “ But, tut! what are you afraid 
of? A most miserable business, but no fault of yours.” 

“ I ought not to have taken his money,” urged the lieu- 
tenant. 

“ There was no choice. It was life or death. She must 
either go away or stay at home and die. * But what a 
plague have we to do with talking of this? If she is to be 
told, she had better be told at once, and you must do it, 
Lem. Pm three parts minded to do it myself, though, 
you’re such a poor fellow/* 

“J wish you would, Paul,” exclaimed the lieutenant. 



4 4 No, I won't; you must do it yourself. Do it to-mor» 
row when I take the old lady in tow. There's more of the 
soldier about her than there is about you, Lem. Well, 
good-night to you. What, man! don't look so puny. 
Here's the child home again as sound as the church — 
sounder a good deal than mine; and that's the handle 
you've got to lay hold on when you tell her about it. ” 

44 Yes; but poor Arnold, Paul!” 

44 He's a man; he'll get out of it. I've been hobbled 
myself before now. The Fleet was standing when I was a 
youngster. D'ye remember that John Adams I stood 
surety for to the tune of a hundred and fifty? No, you 
don't remember anything. Good-niglit to you. If I 
thought that fowling-piece of yours wouldn't burst in my 
hand, I'd go round by the warren.” 

But though the vicar carried Mrs. Warren off to the 
schools early the next morning, and there was a clear field 
till lunch-time, the lieutenant said nothing to Marian of 
that which sat so near his heart. A week passed, and still 
he delayed to tell her. 

Marian, however, had begun to perceive that something 
was awry. A cloud hung over the two houses. The vicar, 
as was generally the case when anything troubled him, was 
more boisterous than usual; the lieutenant, on the other 
hand, was grave and silent, almost to taciturnity. 

The name of Arnold was never mentioned. No letters 


208 


’twixt loye and duty. 


were received from him; there was no talk of his coming: 
to see her on her return; she had not had from him the 
barest message of welcome. 

It was about Arnold, then, that the trouble was — trouble 
and mystery too. She remembered now the suddenness 
with which Arnold's name had disappeared from her 
uncle's letters a few weeks ago, and wondered that she had 
not thought more of this fact at the time. But the matter 
must be cleared up instantly. 

She spoke to the lieutenant; asked how it was that there 
were no letters from Arnold, that he had not been to see 
her, if only for a few hours, since her return, and that 
neither the lieutenant nor the vicar ever mentioned his 
name. 

The lieutenant's conscience smote him that he had not 
told his story before it was asked for; but he would evade 
the telling of it, if possible, even now. 

“ Yes, yes; it should have been told you before. You 
ought to have heard it at once, dear," lie said nervously* 
speaking half to himself and half to her. 

“ Told me before! I should have heard it at once!" she 
exclaimed. “ What do you mean, uncle? Has anything 
happened to Arnold?" 

“The truth is, dear, that Paul, our good friend the 
vicar, over there, you know, has something to say to you. 
He ought to have told you earlier. But go to him at once;, 
you will find him at the Vicarage before he goes out. " 

Away she went, her heart rapping audibly, reproaching 
herself all the way that she had not had this mystery ex- 
plained long ago. 

“ About Arnold, my dear? No; but your uncle Lem* 
there, he has something to say to you; I wonder at his put- 
ting it off so long. A man full of procrastination, about 
which there is a proverb that no doubt you have often 
heard, my dear. Go to him at once and say that I am 
nothing less than astonished. A poor thing this putting 
off; I'll preach on it." 

Back the poor little shuttlecock went, much frightened 
now, and resolved to begin by scolding her uncle. 

But she was baffled again, for when she reached home 
Mrs. Warren was in close talk with her uncle in the gar- 
den, and Mrs. Warren's scene comes first in the order of 
narration. 


TWIXT LOVE AX'D DUTY. 


209 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

f HOW IT WAS TOLD HER. 

Mrs. Warrex had resolved in her heart that Lieutenant 
Lemuel must be won to the support of her nephew's suit. 

Ha! most faithful and doughty lady, are you there? But 
be sure of your ground, and walk warily. This old soldier 
is not always as mild as he looks. 

She said she had received a letter from her nephew, in 
which he stated that he hoped to avail himself of Mr. 
Br unskill's invitation in a few days at latest. 

The lieutenant expressed himself happy; he had not yet 
thanked Mr. Reade properly for the attention he had shown 
to Marian in Madeira. 

Marian had spoken of Mr. Reade? queried Mrs. Warren, 
innocently. Yes, she had told her uncle how assiduously 
he had exerted himself for the entertainment of both ladies; 
indeed, the lieutenant had gathered from his niece's account 
that Mr. Reade had proved quite a host to them while he 
stayed in Funchal. “ But every one," went on the lieuten- 
ant, “ has been most kind to her, and you above all, my 
dear Mrs. Warren." 

“ No one could be anything but kind to her," replied 
Mrs. Warren. “ She repays kindness an hundred-fold." 

“ She is, indeed, a very good girl, and has been a most 
dear niece to me," said the lieutenant. 

Mrs. Warren answered that she was certain of it. For 
her own part she had grown to loye Marian like a 
daughter. 

The lieutenant bowed, with evident feeling. 

“My only uneasiness on her account," pursued Mrs. 
Warren, “ was the thought that she should be getting back 
her strength only to waste it again on mathematics after her 
return to England. " 

“ She is very fond of mathematics," smiled the lieuten- 
ant. 

“ She ought to get married," said Mrs. Warren. 

“Eh? Married, do you say, Mrs. Warren? I believe 
that Marian has never thought of marriage. " 

“My nephew is very devoted to her," said Mrs. Warren. 


210 


TWIXT LOYE AXD DUTY. 


Having launched her bolt, and seen that it took surpris- 
ing effect, Mrs. Warren proceeded to get at once into close 
•quarters. She launched into praise of Gilbert's sterling 
qualities, his high and faithful character; his passion for 
Marian, which she knew, for he had told it to her; then 
touched on his great and growing wealth, and said finally 
that she had reason to believe Marian was not wholly with- 
out regard for him. 

The lieutenant's face, while Mrs. Warren was speaking, 
was a study. He had as little of the mercenary element 
in him as any man living, and, knowing that Marian had 
no more of it than himself, he would not have valued Gil- 
bert Beade's proposal a jot higher for his own sake or hers 
had it been backed by the wealth of Inde. 

In fact, he thought neither of Gilbert, nor of his good 
qualities, nor of his riches. Mrs. Warren's words had hur- 
ried into his mind the image of Arnold — Arnold who, he 
well knew, loved Marian; Arnold who had brought himself 
to ruin that her life might be saved; Arnold, of whom at 
this moment he had no knowledge except that he had 
plunged out of sight in the deeps of London to hide him- 
self and his misfortunes from every one. 

What was this stranger that he should propose to marry 
Marian, on whom another who was no stranger had claims 
like Arnold's? 

Did Marian love Gilbert Beade? The lieutenant prayed 
it might not be so. She knew nothing as yet of all that 
Arnold had done for her. 

This and more passed through his mind while Mrs. 
W arren was beseeching his interest in the cause of Gilbert 
Beade, and when she had finished speaking he was ready 
with his answer. 

He spoke gently and kindly, but quite firmly. He him- 
self and his niece were honored by Mr. Beade's proposal; 
but though he could not of course speak for her, there were 
circumstances which made it impossible for him to befriend 
Mrs. Warren or Mr. Beade in this matter — circumstances 
which Marian herself was not yet aware of, but of which 
she must be put in possession at once. 

The lieutenant would willingly have gone on to tell the 
whole story— would, indeed, have told it there and then 
— but it was at this juncture that Marian, returning in 
haste from the vicarage, appeared at the garden gate. The 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


211 


conversation of the lieutenant and Mrs. Warren broke off 
abruptly, and Mrs. Warren presently left them and took 
her way into the house. 

The concern and affection of the lieutenant for Arnold 
being now thoroughly roused, he needed no further prompt- 
ing. Arnold had pledged him to secrecy long ago, but 
Mrs. Warren's words convinced him that the time for se- 
crecy was past. Marian must know at once in what man- 
ner and to what extent she was indebted to Arnold, and 
judge then whether she would do right to give herself to 
another. For it seemed to the lieutenant that honor was 
involved in this, and on the point of honor no man was 
stricter. 

“ Niece," he began, using the form of address which 
he reserved for serious communications, " I have just been 
apprised by Mrs. Warren that Mr. Reade, her nephew, loves 
you, and would have you marry him. " 

" Mr. Reade asked me to marry him, long since, at 
Madeira," she answered. 

" And what did you say to him, niece?" 

" I said that I loved no one well enough to become his 
wife. " 

This was an answer more to the lieutenant's satisfaction 
than he had looked for, but he went on: 

" I gather, however, from what Mrs. Warren has said to 
me, that he still loves you, and that you are not without 
regard for him. " 

“ It is impossible I should be without regard for him, for 
he has been very kind to me," she said. 

" But ought you not to resolve your heart " (how they talk 
of the heart, these innocent old bachelors!), “ and be at an 
understanding with this gentleman? Mrs. Warren, who 
has been most kind to us, has been to seek my interest in 
Mr. Reade's behalf; would have me say that I would will- 
ingly see you marry him. I, to be sure, have nothing 
against this gentleman — far from it, all that I know of 
him is entirely to his credit; yet something puts it out of 
my power to say a word for him. And -this it is that I 
have to tell you, niece. How can I be Mr. Reade's sup- 
porter when I think of all that you and I owe to Arnold — 
you, Marian,, especially?" 

"To Arnold, Uncle Lemuel! What do we owe to Ar- 
nold? What do I owe?" 


212 


’TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY". 


“ It is to Arnold, under God, that you owe your life.” 

It were a feeble metaphor to say that Marian drank the 
wine of astonishment when these words fell from her 
uncle’s lips. 

“ My life. Uncle Lemuel! My life! What do you mean?” 
she gasped. 

“ Listen, and I will tell you,” answered the lieutenant. 
“ You know in what great distress we were last winter, 
when the doctors ordered you to he sent from England, 
and I had no means of sending you. They said it was a 
question of your life or your death; that between these 
there was no choice; and 1 saw that it was so. You know 
how greatly Arnold was troubled, with the rest of us; yet 
you do not know it as well as I do. Arnold went to town 
one evening, as you remember, and returned the following 
night. The day after, he placed two hundred and fifty 
pounds in my hands, and said it was for your use. ” 

“ And you took it from him?” 

“ Yes, for if your life were to be saved I had mo choice 
else. ” 

“ Arnold gave you two hundred and fifty pounds for 
me, and you took it? But how could Arnold get so much 
money as that?” 

“ You must ask me no questions like that, dear,” said 
the old lieutenant, rather nervously. “ Be assured, though, 
that I questioned him as closely as he suffered me, and 
did not take the money till he had assured me that he did 
himself no injury in giving it.” 

“ Arnold to plunder himself for me, and you to let him. 
Uncle Lemuel, and I to know nothing of it! Oh, what 
a miserable, miserable doing! And his money spent, 
and — ” 

“ Your health restored, Marian,” said the lieutenant, in 
a pleading tone. 

“ What is that? What is that? For Arnold has come 
to some trouble, through me, I know. Tell me, for you 
must know it, has he not ruined himself for me?” 

She stopped him, and laid her hand on his arm and 
looked full at him with indignation in her eyes. 

“ This,” she went on, before he could reply to her — 
“this is the mystery there has been about Arnold for 
weeks past. I know it. You ceased all mention of him 
in your letters. You did not answer my questions. You 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


213 


have hardly spoken of him since I came home. He has 
not been to see me. Uncle Lemuel, what has happened to 
Arnold, and where is he?” 

“He is indeed in great trouble/' faltered the lieutenant, 
“ and — and I do not know where he is?” 

“Oh! is not this wicked!” exclaimed Marian. “To 
take his money, to know that his giving it has brought him 
to ruin; and then to leave him, and say that you can not 
tell where he is!” 

“Niece,” said the lieutenant, gravely, “you must not 
speak like this, for you speak without knowing well 
what you say. We can not be sure, in the first place, 
whether or how far his goodness to us has been the cause 
of his trouble. And do you think that I or his uncle 
would willingly leave him in distress? Is not his uncle's 
home his? Would not my home be his if he needed it? It 
is his own doing that he has ceased to write to us; it is 
himself who lias put it out of our power to write to him. 
We wrote at first, but he did not answer us. It was his 
own express wish to be left alone until he had mastered his 
trouble. He is a good and brave lad.” 

“You need not tell me that. Uncle Lemuel. But,” she 
went on, impetuously, “it is not right! it is not right! He 
must not be left alone. You do not know where he is; then 
you do not know what state he is in, what may have hap- 
pened to him since he wrote to you last. Uncle Lemuel, 
you did very wrong to obey him when he told you to leave 
him to himself. Oh! if I had only known of this before! 
Tell me exactly what it is that has happened to him, so far 
as you know it, uncle.” 

“ Mr. Trimble quarreled with him, and has dismissed 
him; and he has — he has been brought to bankruptcy.” 

“Oh, horrible! Dismissed and a bankrupt, and his 
friends listen to him when he says, * Let me alone.' I 
have no patience with any of you. But he shall be found 
now; if no one else finds him, I will go to London and find 
him myself. ” 

“We shall set about it at once,” said the lieutenant. 
“ Perhaps, indeed, we should have set about it earlier, 
though of that I am not sure, remembering the terms of 
Arnold's letters. You have spoken a little hastily, my 
dear Marian, as though I myself had been careless, or even 
callous, where Arnold's trouble was concerned. ” 


214 


TWIXT LOYE AXD DUTY. 


“No, uncle, no; I did not mean that, but — ” 

“ Well, dear, well, it was spoken hotly, out of the warmth 
and goodness of your heart; and, indeed, I do not hold 
myself quite free from blame. But of this I am certain, 
that when Arnold was bent on finding the means whereby 
you might go to Madeira, nothing would have turned him 
fiom his purpose; no refusal on my part would have 
availed. The help he brought seemed to me nothing less 
than Heaven-sent. With your life' at stake, and no other 
aid at hand or possible, I dared not refuse it; and I knew 
besides that Arnold held your recovery dearer than any- 
thing else in the world. ” 

“ How do you know that, Uncle Lemuel?” 

She spoke low, and strangely enough, the thought of 
what she had bidden Reade ask of her on the brink of 
the precipice beneath Ruivo rose up again in her mind. 

“I know it from what he has said to me; I know it 
more surely from what he has not said,” replied the lieu- 
tenant. 

“Uncle Lemuel,” she said, “let us think of nothing else 
until we have found Arnold. ” 

“ It shall be our endeavor from this moment,” he an- 
swered. 

Parson Paul noted a look on the lieutenant's face that 
evening, and said, “I perceive, my friend, that the thing 
has had birth, and not without some throes.” 

“I have told it to her, Paul,” replied the lieutenant. 

“ And how did the child take it?” 

“ She is set on one thing above everything else — that 
Arnold must be found. 

“ Egad, then, found he must be!” answered Paul. 

Late the same evening, a day or two earlier than he 
was expected, Gilbert Beade arrived at Three Dykes, and, 
in accordance with Parson Paul's invitation, took up his 
quarters at the Vicarage. 

My friend Gilbert, I am sorry; but I fear this visit is 
like to disappoint your hopes. It is such a far cry from 
Pico Ruivo in Madeira to Three Dykes in the West of Eng- 
land; and, besides, a thing has happened. 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


215 


CHAPTER XXX. 

TRANSFORMATION. 

<( Arnold, then, loves me?” 

This the thought that cleft its way into her brain and 
worked there in fiery fashion all day and on into the night. 
She was in her room alone. It was past ten o'clock, and 
the house had retired. Phoebe had just been up to tell 
her that Mr. Reade had arrived and was at the Vicarage. 
He had sent his love to Mrs. Warren, and his compliments 
to her, adding that he would not think of disturbing them 
so late. 

“Iam glad of it," was on the tip of her tongue, but she 
suppressed it, and dismissed Phoebe. 

The night was soft and sweet-smelling, the fields stretch- 
ed out asleep in the fresh moonlight, and she had opened 
her window and sat there in her night-robe. 

“ Arnold, then, loves me?" 

And she stood debtor to Arnold, through no act of her 
own, without so much as her being privy to the debt; and 
this debt, it seemed, had brought ruin on him, and he had 
banished and hidden himself — a situation compounded of 
the strangest circumstances; a situation greatly perplexing 
and somewhat galling to one of Marian's mettle. 

Useless to try and sleep upon it; so she sat there unquiet 
and unhappy, a prey to thoughts, suggestions, fears, and 
chidings the most chaotic. The many-colored drama of 
the last few months enacted itself again in her uneasy 
brain. 

The swoon at college, which was the opening scene; her 
head swam again at the thought of it. The return of con- 
sciousness, her uncle beside her; the home-coming weak 
and broken, with the future blotted out. The fiat of the 
doctors — Go and live, or stay here and die. The quick 
settlement of the affair, when it had seemed quite hopeless 
— dull-brain that she was, not to have perceived at a glance 
that the settlement followed within half a day on Arnold's 
return from that sudden visit to London! The first meet- 
ing with Reade and her mental summing of him up as 
taciturn and ungentle. Madeira, and the strange, eventful 


216 


’iWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


history of the sojourn there; languid and quick by turns; 
the glamour of the place itself; then (and still with feel- 
ings part resentful, part pitiful, and part sympathetic) 
Readers proposal, the second great landmark in her life. 
His departure and return; their last expedition, and the 
dizzy terror of the scene on the precipice brink. On this 
she dwelt long, trying to recall the exact words she had 
spoken when, on awaking from her faint, she found herself 
with Gilbert’s arms about her. She had been willing to 
pledge herself to him, and he, with a generosity which few 
men in his place would have equaled, had refused to let 
her. He had saved her life. So had Arnold, and in sav- 
ing it had ruined himself. And Reade loved her, and 
Arnold loved her. And Reade was here now, come per- 
haps to ask what he would not ask in Madeira; and Arnold 
was away, lost in London — if, indeed, London still held him. 
But Reade, despite his nearness, seemed further from her 
now than Arnold who was lost. Reade’s star declined, 
Arnold’s shed a brighter light from afar. 

She put a curious question to herself: Did this that 
Arnold had done for her, coupled with his love, constitute 
such a claim upon her that she ought to think herself 
morally engaged to him already? 

She put that question aside, with the answer that no 
service could exact such reward, unless the heart consented. 
Was her heart outside of this matter, then? 

No, for gratitude welled in it at thought of Arnold sac- 
rificing himself for her; it bled pity at thought of his 
suffering — untended, alone — in the great gray Babylon. 

For a new Arnold was born and grew in her mind that 
night. She had known a boyish companion, a pleasant 
friend, her uncle’s chosen associate, a welcome guest in her 
home. But such friends we have all about us, and they 
are the friends whom we have to abandon with only the 
shadow of pitying regret. This new Arnold was a sublimer 
figure; the deed he had done was knightliest of all knightly 
deeds. It was more than heroic; it seemed to her one of 
those acts which link the human with the Divine, and 
breathe through our terrestrial life intimations of its celes- 
tial beginnings and its celestial aim. 

So when the morning broke, pity and affection had 
driven out all other feelings and held equal sway. It was. 


'twixt love axd duty. 


217 


<c Arnold, Arnold, you have done all this for me; you have 
ruined yourself for me; how can I choose but love- you?" 
And with this she cried herself to sleep, for Arnold's sake. 

Never a hastier, hotter thing than the friendship which 
sprung up between Parson Paul and Gilbert Reade. It 
rose, like Jonah's gourd, in a night. Some half-score tales 
of sport and adventure did it. Paul sacrificed three good 
sleeping hours in his effort to exhaust Reade's recollections 
of hunting, shooting, fishing, and trapping in all parts of 
the globe where sport was to be had, and at two o'clock in 
the morning he had not so much as winked an eye. Piling 
on fresh logs and fetching in more rations from the dining- 
room, he vowed that Reade should tell the rhinoceros 
story again, and as he sat through it, with kindled face, 
he mourned inwardly the hard fate that had forced him to 
parson it in a sleepy English hamlet, where a casual rab- 
bit and a very occasional hare were the most unclerical ex- 
citements that offered — ghost-laying coming but once in a 
man's lifetime. But for an interjection here and there, 
and a crackling of the fingers, he sat like a pyramid through- 
the recital, and “I'd give a hogshead of cider (if I had 
it)," said he at the conclusion, “ if I could hold my Three- 
Dykers in church like this! Would you believe it, there 
are seldom above two of them awake when I get in sight 
of f Lastly,' and Ann Hanoch, my woman, is one of 'em, 
and Keturah, the kitchen-girl, is the other. I think I'm 
too full of Gospel for them; I don't put carnal enough 
into it. " 

Now the vicar when he had brooded the matter half a 
day (thinking much between whiles what a figure he would 
make standing with smoking rifle over a prostrate ele- 
phant) saw that good might be brought out of the bound- w 
less friendliness of his visitor. Reade must be made to 
hunt up Arnold. The good man little imagined what a 
task he was devising for poor Gilbert; no labor of Hercules 
had the bitterness of it. But Parson Paul had not been 
with Gilbert and Marian to the Twenty-five Fountains, nor - 
descended with them from Pico Ruivo. 

He told Reade something of the trouble that had befallen 
himself and his friend the lieutenant, Marian being con- 
cerned in it, as he “ believed the girl had a sort of feeling 
for Arnold," though “ what sort of a feeling he had never 


218 


'TWIXT LOVE AKD DUTY. 


quite made out." Reade, “ a most excellent fellow, might 
perhaps be able to help them in some way. ’’ 

Gilbert, without showing any indecent curiosity, replied 
that his services were quite at the vicar’s disposal. Paul 
shook him by the hand, and took him round to look at, 
the pigs. 

Gilbert asked Mrs. Warren what it was all about. She 
told him as much as she knew; said she wished for his 
sake that circumstances were happier, but had noticed as. 
a strange fact, during the past ten years or more, that it 
was always the wrong thing which happened; that Marian, 
was in a state of great distress, and that Gilbert must do 
whatever she wanted of him. 

Gilbert said he could do no less, be the circumstances 
what they might; and began to perceive that he was des- 
tined to play a role, success in which demands a fair sub- 
stratum of philosophy. 

Toward him — and, indeed, toward the rest (having- 
once spoken out) — Marian was reticent on the subject,, 
though she took no pains to hide her lack of comfort; and 
showed a wintery, or, at brightest, an autumnal, face- 
amongst her friends. 

One could not but notice, though, that she was more 
tender to Gilbert than to any one else; and as the tokens 
of tenderness are apt to be mistaken for those of the 
deeper passion, the poor fellow began to feel himself again, 
on thin provision of hope, thinking that perhaps she had 
but a sisterly concern for that other one. 

Yet in her eyes, when they fell on him, there was often 
a kind of yearning pity, with even something of regret; 
and once, when he spoke a low word in her ear, as they 
walked in the shadow of the elms at sunset, she smiled 
sadly, and shook her head, and said, “You should 
have been less generous on the rock above the sea that, 
day. ’’ 

She wrote urgent letters, but received no replies. 

Every night, when Paul and his guest had returned from 
the Vineyard, or when the Vineyard party had quitted 
the Vicarage, the parson marched Gilbert into the study, 
set him in his own chair, and called for a fresh narrative 
of sport. 

Gilbert’s store was inexhaustible. “ Put but the half of 


'twixt loye and duty. 


219 


It on paper, and you might fill volumes!” exclaimed Paul, 
■and looked with a meditative air at his book-case, as though 
considering what theological set he could most easily dis- 
pense with, to make room for Gilbert's sporting reminis- 
cences. 

Gilbert returned from a solitary stroll one morning, and, 
nearing the Vicarage, saw the parson coming home from 
his round in the village. 

“ A badger!” shouted Gilbert, at the top of his voice. 

f f Eh ! What ? Where?” and the vicar's gray eye ranged 
the fields on either side of him. 

“ A mile away, up there in the coppice on the hill.” 
“Ugh!” 

They walked in company toward the Vicarage, and fell 
to talking of Arnold. But the vicar's thoughts were full 
of badger. 

“Where did you say you found him?” he asked present- 
ly, when Gilbert had clean forgotten pig. 

“ In the coppice on the side of the hill. ” 

“Ah! A likely place. Did you — hum! no, you didn't, 
of course.” 

“ I had no dog with me." 

“You had no dog with you. It was well. A good 
Beast, for all the abuse lie's had.” 

“Vermin, you know, vicar; sheer vermin.” 

“ So the gamekeepers say; but the rascal has his uses.” 

“ Killing foxes, for example,” quoth Reade. 

“Well, maybe a fox here and there. Yet I've known 
badger and fox lodge in the same earth. But Reynard's 
too dirty for him. ” 

“He kills moles, too.” 

“ The mole's a nuisance. Away with moles! No moles 
for me.” 

“Well, let badger bide,” said Reade. “What were we 
talking of, vicar?” 

“This nephew of mine, Arnold, the poor boy. You 
know what a stew we're in about him. Marian, poor girl, 
quite upset. And the foolish thing is that we've no idea 
where he is. Burrowed away somewhere in London. Bur- 
rowed, eh? Badger again. I think you said you had no 
dog with you?” 

“I had no dog with me. Well, how am I to help you, 
vicar? You know that any trouble of Miss Dean's — that is, 


220 'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 

I mean I shall be only too glad to be of service to any of 
you." 

“ A good fellow, Reade; you have the heart in the right 
place. So have I; but when it comes to an affair like this, 
I want nose. Now, if you have nose as well as heart you 
may do wonders for us. You may scour London." 

“Eh, sir!" 

“I mean you might make an inquiry or two. You 
know every one in London* I dare say, and no doubt every 
street, too. Was the brute well grown?" 

“ The finest badger I ever saw. I Ye hunted them in. 
America, too." 

“ You have! Are the Yankee badgers good sport?" 

“Eve had better with the English." 

“I believe you! It wants a game dog to tackle him.. 
But Ell draw no more badgers, I. " 

They all lunched together at the Vicarage, and Paul 
maintained throughout the meal what was for him an un- 
common degree of silence. He seemed full of some private 
matter, eyed the dog frequently, and felt his jaw every 
time he threw him a scrap. 

It was a formidable jaw enough; the .dog’s nearest rela- 
tive was probably the lurcher; the vicar had had him as a 
pup from a noted poacher, who had thought thus to curry 
favor with the poacher's arch-enemy. A sharp, snappish 
dog, plenty of weight, a huge head and shoulders, stealthy 
ways, an observant eye, and a lurking gait that made way- 
farers chilly about the calves. Altogether, as Paul thought, 
a dog that might be trusted to do his duty in a warm 
corner. 

The vicar debated the matter in his heart. “ Reade is 
evidently bent on drawing this badger. Shall I humor 
him? As he's my guest, I almost think I ought to. And 
the more I humor him the better disposed he will be, and 
the more likely to help us find Arnold — poor boy. " 

Whence it appears the Rev. Paul could on occasion do 
his little stroke of casuistry. 

“There'll be good moonshine to-night," observed the 
vicar, at about seven o'clock in the evening. Two hours 
later the moon rode high in a cloudless sky, with just a 
fine-spun veil of mist over her face. 

“Nice night for a stroll," the vicar called from his study 
to Reade, whose boots were crunching the gravel outside. 


*twixt loye and duty. 


221 


“And for a badger/* replied Gilbert, laughing in his 
heart, for he had observed that the brother to the lurcher 
had been kept on short commons all day. 

“ Fll draw no more badgers, I," said Paul; “ but Hi 
take a turn through the fields with you if you*re disposed. * > 
“ Come along, sir. Shall we take the dogs?** 

“Well, well; but we*ll need to keep them close to heel. 
This big brute here doesn*t seem to have had his fill to-day; 
he*s snarling like a jackal.** 

“I hope he*ll meet no badger,** said Eeade. 

“ Thereil be a badger the less at sunrise if he does,** mut- 
tered Paul. 

They took the path through the field which led direct to 
the coppice on the hill. 

“ It is ten to one we meet him on the prowl,** said Eeade. 
“ Meet who?** answered the vicar, careless of grammar 
under an excitement he could barely control. 

“ The gentleman with the pointed muzzle.** 

“Oh! I thought you meant some poacher.** 

“ He*s as arrant a poacher as any of them.** 

The dogs began to sniff, and give out other tokens of ex- 
citement. Eunning alongside Scraper, the lurcher*s 
brother, was the fox-terrier whose acquaintance we made 
in the first chapter of this story, a very business-like dog, 
who could run a rabbit pretty close in the open. 

They had scarcely set foot on the hill when Scraper, with, 
the terrier at his heels, broke away at full speed in the 
direction of the coppice. The vicar, panting like a steam- 
engine, laid a hand on Eeade*s shoulder, and forcing him 
behind a tree, whispered hoarsely: 

“ D*ye see him?** 

“ No!** said Eeade. “Where?** 

“ There!” Pianissimo, which gave a terrible emphasis 
to the word. 

Following the line of the vicar*s trembling finger, Eeade 
saw the badger crouched behind a big stone far up the hill. 
He had heard, if not seen, the dogs, and their yelping para- 
lyzed him. In a second Scraper would have been at him, 
but in that second the badger recovered his wits, and shot 
into the earth three feet distant. 

“ He*s gone!** said Eeade. ,f Let him alone; he*s a good 
beast,** and laughed in his sleeve. 

“ He*s a thief and a rascal!** cried the vicar. 


222 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


“ He lodges in the same earth with foxes,” said Reade. 

“He'd kill every fox in the county!” exclaimed Paul. 

“ We'll let him lie,” said Reade. 

“We are no men if we do!” retorted the vicar, and 
bounded up the hill, Reade after him. 

Beautiful now to see how the parson, the original Nimrod 
rampant in every inch of him, kept Reade in hand. 

“Put the terrier into the earth; no, not Scraper; we'll 
want him outside. I know to a foot where the rogue will 
come out. There's another earth higher up.” 

But piggy, burrowing like a file, with the terrier at his 
tail, drove a passage clean through fresh soil, and came out 
some yards behind the men. He would have escaped into 
a neighboring earth had not Scraper heard him pattering 
down the hill. A moment later he was after him, and 
flinging himself against the sturdy beast just as he was 
rising at a hillock, managed to overturn him and they 
rolled over together. It was bite for bite now, and at this 
game the powerful dog was no match for the badger, who 
made terrible play with his teeth. 

“His chest, you fool, his chest!” shouted the vicar 
(mercy on us! the bishop nine miles away in his study had 
need have his ears plugged with tow), for Scraper was tear- 
ing in vain at the badger's impenetrable neck. With a 
despairing yelp he drove at the softer skin of the chest, 
ripped it, fastened there, and the badger, with teeth un- 
covered, and eyes red and fierce in death, snarled his last, 
and gave over. 

The vicar pulled off his hat and wiped his head and face 
and neck. 

‘ f A magnificent pig !” said the vicar. * f He'd have killed 
every fox in the county.” 

“ There's not a doubt of it,” answered Reade, and 
laughed inwardly. 

And they went home, and the vicar slept with an easy 
conscience. 

“What are you looking so glum about?” said he to the 
lieutenant the next morning. “ We shall find the lad now 
in a twinkling. Reade's going to help us. I let him draw 
a badger last night, to humor him. He's ours, heart and 
soul. I never saw a man so much excited in my life. The 
finest badger, too, I ev — I tell you Reade's going to town 
to hunt up our Arnold for us. ” 


'twixt love akd duty. 


223 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

HEMLOCK. 

te But there is a question of duty in it, if there were no 
other question,” she said. 

“ Stands duty first — or love?” he answered. 

They sat on the broad seat built against the trunk of the 
copper-beech in the dimmest corner of the garden. She 
wore a pale yellow dress, which Gilbert had once said mated 
best with her color, and dangled her straw hat by its rib- 
bon. Gilberts face was that of a man who waits for a sen- 
tence he has schooled himself to receive. 

“ Stands duty first — or love?” he said again, for she had 
not answered him. 

“ Ah! my friend,” she broke out impetuously, s< you do 
not know all that he has done for me. It is to him I owe 
my recovery from sickness — my life. He was poor; he 
raised a great sum of money — how or where I do not know 
— he forced my uncle to take it, that I might go abroad. 
He is now in some great trouble, and I, as I believe, am 
the cause. I)o you think this is nothing to me? He has 
broken with Mr. Trimble, who had such great faith in him; 
he has disappeared, none of us know where he is, he does 
not write to us, he sends us no message. Oh! it would have 
been better I should never have got well than that he should 
have ruined himself for me. If you love me as you say you 
do, you must help me to find Arnold. ” 

It is in this fiery way they test the men who love them. 

“ I am to find him for you that you may reward him by 
marrying him,” said Gilbert, quietly and without anger, 
merely that she might see the matter as he saw it. 

“ You must help me to find Arnold.” 

It was all her answer; she had none else to make. Pity 
for him she could feel, but for herself she knew no re- 
gret in resigning him. She looked away from him as she 
spoke, she did not see him. Arnold and Arnold only; and 
it was not now the dictate of duty she obeyed. 

Gilbert rose and took a step in the direction of the house. 
Love wounded and cast away whispered it was not a man's 
part to do this bidding of hers. 


224 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


“Then let me be no man for once/* he answered back; 
and turning about, said to her, “ I shall do what you ask 
me. ” 

“ Yes," she faltered, “ I know that you will; for you 
are truer than most men, and have no taint of selfishness; 
but— you think that I am cruel, do you not?” 

“You know,” answered he, “ that it is yours to com- 
mand, and that I am only to obey. I think nothing.” 

“Ah! but you do: tell me what you think.” 

“No. If I have any thought at all, I would not tell it. 
That — for the moment at any rate — is more than should 
be asked. If I said one thing, you would answer that I 
spoke out of bitterness; if I said another, you might feel 
that I tried to be magnanimous at the expense of truth. 
But I will find your lover for you. That, I think, from 
one in my position, should count something for devotion.” 

He touched her hand lightly and left her. 

He went back to the Vicarage and found the vicar phys- 
icking a sick hen in the porch, with his hat on the ground 
beside him full of bait for fishing. 

“ When I have doctored this hen,” said Paul, “ Fll take 
you to the river. This nice damp air smells of a flood; we 
shall have a chance to-day.” 

“ I have no rod with me,” said Eeade, feeling that the 
best trout in the pool would jump in vain for him that 
day. 

“ HI lend you my own,” answered Paul. “ I can bor- 
row John Finch's. ” 

“No; I won't fish to-day, vicar. The air has dried, and 
there'll be sun enough to bake the fish in an hour. I have 
been thinking that if I am to be of any help to you in this 
matter we've been talking about, the sooner I begin the 
search the better. I propose to return to town to-morrow. ” 

“ It's a month sooner than I'd have you go/' returned 
the parson. “Here, you, Keturah, put this hen in a 
basket in the kitchen, and have a care for her, remember- 
ing that the males of this feather were sacred to iEscula- 
pius — I think a week hence would be soon enough. ” 

“ Tu kill un, please, sir?” 

“ Kill what? The hen? I'll look into the history of 
this girl's family one day; there must have, been some 
Fluid amongst them a generation or two back. I say, 
Beade, I think a week hence would be quite time enough.” 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 225 

“ No, by your leave, vicar, I think the sooner the bet- 
ter." 

“ Well, you'll find him in a day or two, I make no 
doubt, and then you'll bring him down yourself, you 
know." 

It is perhaps due to Parson Paul to say that he was en- 
tirely ignorant of what had transpired between Reade and 
Marian. He had a fine instinct for keeping clear of other 
people's concerns, except where they touched him in his 
clerical capacity. As for love, he was a sworn old bache- 
lor, and mocked like Momus at the notion that two young 
people of opposite sex could not be near each other for a 
month without one of them being brought to a declaration. 

Gilbert said he certainly hoped to meet the vicar again, 
and as it was evident he had made up his mind to return 
to town at once, Parson Paul gave over pressing him to 
remain. “ Lem ought to be very grateful to me for this," 
said he to himself. “ It was the badger that did it." 

Gilbert Reade took his fate like a good soldier of fortune. 
Men swallow the hemlock every day with as good grace as 
Socrates, and no admiring circle of friends around to 
sweeten the cup with their praise. Just at first, to be sure, 
one is a little doubtful as to the wisdom of the poet that 
“ 'Tis better to have loved and lost," etc., but to take the 
stroke without visible muscular contraction is something. 

He would not play the cynic, which is the cheapest role 
of all; and when he tried how far he could succeed in 
working himself into an honest anger, he found it easier 
to turn the tables on himself with the reasonable argument 
that his defeat was partly the result of his own quixotic 
chivalry. If he had asked her to marry him when they 
were quitting the precipice on whose brink his arm had 
stayed her from death, she would have said “Yes." But 
it was he who had made “the great refusal " then, and for 
what followed — well, there is a plant which blossoms but 
once in a hundred years, and shall a woman twice offer 
herself to a man in shorter time than that? 

The world is hard on a man who fails, raps him over the 
cheek-bone, and tells him such a one as he could never have 
hoped to succeed. But something of respect is the due of 
those who drink the cup with steady lip, and ask no ap- 
plauding witness to their courage. Let Gilbert Reade take 
this due, for it is his. 


226 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


He told stories to the vicar that night till delighted 
wonder stiffened the old man’s beard; and at the end, 
bringing his hand with an echoing thwack on the arm of 
his chair, he exclaimed, “Your excitement’s catching, 
vicar! you fire me! I’ll turn globe-trotter again, and see 
some more sport before I die.” 

“By the red skin of Esau! if they’d give me another 
fifty pounds a year, I’d hire a curate and go with ye!” an- 
swered Paul. 

“ Stuff, gentlemen, both! You, Gilbert Beade, know 
well enough that you will never again let sea divide you 
from the woman who holds your heart. As for you, Paul, 
you would merit a fate worse than Jonah’s, if you left 
those few sheep of yours in the wilderness of Three Dykes 
for all the tigers in Bengal and all the deer in Africa. To 
bed with you both! you have drunk too much cider!” 

“ So you are going, dear Gilbert,” said Mrs. Warren to 
him the next morning. “ I can say nothing, except that I 
have failed most terribly. I don’t know how it is, but 
sinbe I lost my copy of ‘ Hervey’s Meditations,’ nothing 
that I take in hand seems to prosper. I bought it at a 
bookstall in a short street near the Strand, where, if you 
are ever passing, you might be able to procure me another 
copy. ” 

“My dear aunt, all that could be done you have done; 
but,” he added with a smile, “ it appears that these things 
are not to be managed by diplomacy.” 

When Marian said good-bye to him before he left in the 
evening, she said it rather timidly, but the frank kindliness 
of Gilbert’s manner comforted her. 

“Oh! you are very good,” she said. “You are like one 
of the strong, true-hearted knights of the days that were. ” 

Now this was rather an unfortunate comparison, but 
Gilbert forbore to say that when the knight went forth to do 
his lady’s bidding, he looked, on his return, for the guerdon 
of her hand. 

He said, however: 

“Those knights you speak of had with them mostly 
some token of their princess’s regard, which they counted 
also for a charm against evil by the way. There is no evil 
likely to befall me but the evil of a rather heavy spirit, 
for you know I shall not be able to forget you just yet. 
Have you any charm against an evil like that?” 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


227 


“ I have the charm the old woman gave me at Santa 
Cruz/* she said, drawing out of her dress a queer little 
figure carved in the wood of a camphor-tree. “ Will you 
take that?** 

“ We had a quarrel on the day that this was given you/* 
said Gilbert, 

“ Yes; but we had made it up before I had this.** 

He took it from her with a smile and bade her good-bye. 

The lieutenant and Paul walked with him on the road 
till J ob overtook them with the coach. 

Mr. Reade is a gentleman of a very fine nature, Paul/* 
said the lieutenant, when they had seen the last of him. 
The lieutenant, you may remember, knew something more 
than the vicar. 

“Tut! What do you know of him?** exclaimed Paul. 
“ Has he told you of the grizzly that tried to swallow his 
rifle? The man hasn*t shown his heart to yon.” 

“I fancy poor Mr. Reade has a great deal of regard for 
Marian/* said the lieutenant. 

“ Gammon! D*ye think the whole world has a heart for 
the chit? . Why, this Reade is a fellow who thinks no more 
of leveling an elephant than I do of potting a rabbit. Is 
that a man to fall in love with women?** 

The next evening Gilbert went to dine at one of his 
clubs, and going up the steps was met full tilt by an airy 
young gentleman with a superfluity of shirt-front and hat- 
brim, who was coming down* It was our friend the poet. 
Dick knew everybody, and Gilbert was an old acquaint- 
ance. 

“ If I were given to betting/* was Gilberts greeting, “ I 
would lay twenty to one that your Cousin Joseph has a din- 
ner party this evening. Cousin Josepli*s dinners, Dick, 
are the only appointments I ever knew you in a hurry for. ** 

“You are right, most sapient globe-trotter/* said Dick. 
“ I have a ballad to write for to-morrow, and Cousin Jo- 
sephs soup-tureen is my Castalian Fount.** 

“ Stay here and dine with me/* said Gilbert! “I want 
to talk to you. ** 

“ If you*ll send your card down to the cook, I will/* re- 
plied the poet. “ You*re the only member of the club the 
cook serves with a decent dinner. ** 

“ Take this with my compliments to the cook/* said Gil- 


228 'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 

bert, giving his card to the hall porter, “ and say Mr. Bell 
dines with me.” 

During dinner, Gilbert let fall the name of Arnold. 

“ Hullo! do you know Lee?” said Dick. 

“No; but I know some friends of his in the country.” 

“Ah! The Three Dykes menagerie?” 

“Yes. You seem to know Lee.” 

“I? I have been his greatest benefactor. We chummed 
in chambers, and I fed him on kidneys ’and claret till his 
wits improved so that his boss made him manager and 
doubled his screw. Then he took to beafsteak and beer, 
and lost the berth at once. The stomach is everything. If 
I could have trained Lee for twelve months on the arti- 
choke soup of Cousin J oseplTs cook, he'd be on his way to 
the woolsack now.” 

“ He's rather under the wind at present, isn't he?” said 
Gilbert. 

“It has spread him flat, poor devil.” 

“ Where is he?” 

“ I can tell you where he was.” 

“ What's the use of that? I want to know where he is.” 

“ Where's Homer?” 

“In the shades.” 

“ So's Lee.” 

“ Do you mean that you have lost sight of him?” 

“Yes; he has given me the slip. He's given all of us 
the slip.” 

“ Give me his last address.”' 

“Robert Street, Bedford Row.” 

“That will do. I'll find him from that.” 

“ If you do, I'll give you as good a dinner as this.” 

“A bargain!” 

But poet Dick was never called on to pay that score, for 
Gilbert's quest was fruitless. One may lie close enough in 
the shades of London if one wills it; and Arnold was 
resolved to lie as close as ever unfortunate wight had lain. 
This was the reason that Gilbert failed to find" him. 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


22 9 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

AT THE RESTAURANT PARISIEN. 

On a chill gray night in mid-September, the stars, all 
fringed with mist, shone feebly over the wet roofs of Lon- 
don. It was mist above, it was fog below, and the dank 
and steaming streets were almost blotted out. 

The night-birds of the city crept from the corners where, 
like Parson PauPs badger, they had slept through the day, 
shook their frowsy wings, and flitted here and there in 
search of food or prey. 

An old yellow moon struggled through the clouds, peered 
half-contemptuously on the sooty town, and went in again. 

The men who sell food and drink through the hours when 
four fifths of London is asleep trundled out their barrows 
and gathered stray coppers from belated pedestrians and 
those whose business is Twixt night and morning. 

The genius of the sleeping city watched it from his cloud- 
eyrie; and so, on the dripping pavement, with an occasional 
lapse into tobacco, did the policeman. 

In the sloping attic of a fifth-rate French restaurant in 
Soho, a candle that stood much in need of snuffing threw a 
wan light over bare walls and an uncarpeted floor. A small 
round table, covered with writing materials, was in the 
center of the room, and a man who had been writing there 
lay half across it and slept like a stone. 

The jaw had fallen slightly, and the lips were just parted. 
The skin of the face and neck had a grayish tinge, which 
came something short of pallor, but spoke of meager 
rations, bad air, haggard anxiety, and, in a word, of life 
supported on a consumptive purse. 

Is this Arnold? If it be not he, it is his ghost in poor 
condition. It is Arnold. 

Noting him and his surroundings, one has not far to 
seek for some, at any rate, of the motives that impelled, 
and still impel, him to hide himself from the sight and 
knowledge of his friends. 

He is a wanderer now in the labyrinth of London; and 
such wanderers, if they have fallen from even so modest 


230 


*TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


an estate as we saw Arnold in at the opening of this story, 
are seldom anxious to reveal their whereabouts. In this 
labyrinth, whose passages and chambers are without num- 
ber, there are worse retreats than Arnold found; still, a 
twelve-foot attic in a shy French restaurant in Soho is 
hardly the abode in which one cares to receive one’s 
friends. 

“ Snuff me this candle, please !” as Heine^s Moses Lump 
used to say to his snuff ers-woman; but here there is no 
snuffers- worn an, and I see no snuffers. He sleeps on. I 
think this candle will go out. It would be a pity, for it 
warms the room. 

Within a very short time of his bankruptcy, Arnold be- 
gan to find Robert Street too aristocratic and costly a quar- 
ter for a gentleman in liis position — a gentleman, to speak 
more precisely, who had no position at all. He cast about 
for a less extravagant lodging, and, getting into conversa- 
tion over a bowl of bouillon de bceuf with the madame of 
the little Restaurant Parisien in Greek Street, one after- 
noon, he learned that he could rent a furnished apparte- 
ment there for three and sixpence a week. He removed 
his belongings, a piece at a time, from Robert Street, paid 
his bill and settled down in the colony of the clock-makers, 
the barbers, and the blanchisseuses. And having done this, 
he perceived the necessity of making a fresh start in life. 

How the man sleeps! What is the good of a truckle-bed 
if you are going to abuse the table in this way? It creaks 
under his weight, too. . The candle struggles on gamely. 

The circumstances of his bankruptcy had put it out of 
his power to practice in his profession. His years of study 
in the narrow grooves of the law, his cleverly passed exam- 
inations, his time of drudgery, his brief season of manager- 
ship, his ability to enter at once into practice for himself, 
all this became of no avail the moment the registrar dis- 
missed him uncertificated; and so long as Mr. Trimble 
held out against him there was no possibility of retrieving 
the position he had lost. 

The law having cut him, he cut the law, and with it his 
connection with all the friends and acquaintances who had 
been associated with his professional life. When a man 


'twixt love and duty. 231 

drops out of his sphere, his past associates ask what has 
become of him, are sorry to miss him; and, finding that he 
does not return, fill up his place and hardly remember 
his name. Arnold need not have troubled himself greatly 
as to the conjectures of his friends respecting his disap- 
pearance, for all such conjectures are generally short-lived. 

It would not forward the story, and would be no partic- 
ular kindness to Arnold, to return from this point, and fol- 
low him step by step through the sharpest period of his 
misfortunes. For three weeks or a month he had just as 
much food as sufficed to keep him continuously on the path 
in search of work. 

It is an odd thing how the man in low water never does 
meet with work, and in those few weeks Arnold had been 
as close to low water mark as it is possible to get and not 
starve outright. 

It is a period which lends itself to picturesque treatment 
on paper, when one is writing the life of a man of letters, 
but a miserably sordid time in reality, and the picturesque- 
ness is gone when one remembers how common the experi- 
ence is. 

Arnold took to journalism, of course; that being, with 
the exception of law, the only trade he knew anything what- 
ever about. It is not a profitable calling at the best of 
times; it is a desperately hungry calling when one begins, 
as Arnold had to begin, at the lowest rung of the ladder. 

Up to this time, as he now perceived, he had been the 
merest amateur. An occasional article on a subject he was 
familiar with, and for the insertion and payment of which 
he could afford to wait, had represented the sum of his 
achievements. But occasional articles on legal topics are 
not the bread by which a man may live. He wrote articles 
on other subjects, but they were not wanted. Sometimes 
they were returned to him, sometimes they were not; but 
it was of no consequence, for they would not sell. Evi- 
dently he had got on to the wrong track at the very outset. 

He went to a city news-room one morning, read through 
one paper after another, and in the course of this exercise 
it dawned upon him that a daily newspaper is not a literary 
affair at all. The amount of space devoted to literature 
pure and simple was, as Arnold perceived, hardly worth 
taking into account. To the young man of literary feel- 
ings (a bad stock-in-trade for a journalist, if they be his all) 


232 


'twixt love and duty. 


it appeared that most of the columns were filled with matter 
which the intelligent reader would skip. But clearly these 
were the wares that were wanted, and presumably they 
were paid for, which was certainly not the case with ornate 
essays, neatly and laboriously penned, of a literary or spec- 
ulative cast. Indeed, one editor, in returning a contribu- 
tion of this sort, went out of his way to scrawl a line in 
pencil on the back of the manuscript, inquiring whether 
the author seriously supposed that readers of a daily paper 
were capable of digesting “this kind of thing "? 

In his critical examination of the “ leading organs of 
public opinion/' Arnold noted how large a share of space 
was appropriated to, common and more or less trivial inci- 
dents of the daily life of the town, such as street brawls, 
sudden deaths, mad dogs, suicides, falling chimneys; 
“ casualties " in the streets, in the docks, on the river; burst- 
ing boilers, vestry meetings; “ singular discoveries" in 
drains, sewers, back-kitchens, graveyards, and water-butts; 
and wondered who were the purveyors of this curiously 
varied intelligence. 

In due time he fell in with one of them at the news-room, 
a weedy reporter, attached to no paper but hanging on to 
a dozen, who, having taken a first-class at Oxford, had 
subsequently developed into a first-class failure in London. 

This jackal of the press scraped a thin living in the by- 
paths of the craft. There are plenty of university men do- 
ing this sort of work, and doing it badly. He was known 
in every newspaper-office in Fleet Street, and was a famil- 
iar object outside the cashier's box, soliciting five shillings 
on account. He was known, too, at Cogers Hall, where, 
on the nights of a warm debate, he spoke pungently on one 
glass of whisky, and brilliantly on three. On Sundays he 
reported Mr. Spurgeon's sermons for a religious journal. 
He sponged on Arnold for a week, found that Arnold's 
purse was on the whole the leaner of the two, and sheered 
off. 

But Arnold had learned a thing or two from him, and 
turned his knowledge to account. He, too, became a jackal, 
and found that the jackal was able to keep the wolf from 
the door. But no ambitious hopes were compatible with his 
new calling. He must cast away ambition, or make up his 
mind to starve. He let ambition go, and saw that it was 
possible to live. 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


233 


“ My friend, you sleep too heavily. This noiseless sleep 
of yours has the look of stupor; I am three parts minded 
to rouse you.” 

“Let me alone; I have worked harder than you to-day. ” 

The candle has a spasm and dies. The moon, grown 
whiter, turns sentinel in its place, and a pair of mice 
scamper out from the hole by the fireplace: no cheese-par- 
ings here, gentlemen. 

The seamy side of letters has been painted to weariness. 
It has been a favorite subject for the sickly sentimental 
brush, from Johnson’s time onward. Why, one does not 
clearly perceive. There is as much poetry about a needy 
grocer as about a needy journalist. The one has failed to 
find his market; so has the other. They both find it in 
time, or, if they be men, take another trade. 

Few ills belong exclusively to the literary calling; and as 
for poverty, she is the “midwife of genius” and the found- 
er of the fine arts. 

Arnold was frequently hungry; but a little hunger is 
good for the imagination, and the digestive powers of sed- 
entary men are not adapted to a gross diet. Bacon is bad 
for the fancy, so are sucking-pig and cream. Anacreon 
wrote his odes on raisins, and Newton thought out gravita- 
tion on bread and water. 

The Itestaurant Parisien breathed an easy Bohemianism 
which was not ungrateful to the lungs of our sturdy bank- 
rupt. He maintained a resolute stoicism and something 
of cheerfulness besides, and had no need to hide his poverty 
where all were poor alike. The Belgian count with the 
white poodle, who lodged on the ground-floor, and was 
without visible means of subsistence, snapped his fingers in 
the face of the world every morning when he came down to 
breakfast, and called for half a bottle of red wine at sixpence 
with an air that would have made Eabelais embrace him. 
The gay barber who came in from the next street at half- 
past twelve, humming Mozart, and dined sumptuously for 
one-and-twopence, was one of the wealthy patrons of the 
establishment, and had a napkin laid beside his plate. 

Madame was a little, eager, black-eyed woman from 
Provence, who became at once the mother of every one 
who praised her husband’s cooking. Monsieur had quite 
the air of the old French noblesse , and would have passed 


234 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


readily for a marquis out of repair. He was fond of com- 
ing up from the kitchen of an evening to tell you how he 
had served in the queen’s employ at Windsor, but one never 
gathered distinctly whether monsieur had offended the 
queen or the queen had offended monsieur. One was dis- 
posed to accept the latter of these conclusions, for he 
cooked as one who had true culinary genius. 

At the Restaurant Parisien you might live less cheaply 
while you seemed to live more than luxuriously. The 
gourmands of the house called for three dishes, and paid a 
fraction under a shilling. One had his plat du jour for 
fourpence, his roti for sixpence, and his legumes for a 
penny. Bouillon de bceuf, ragout de mouton , cotelette y 
and ‘ marlan au gratin have a distinguished look upon 
paper; but monsieur served them all piping hot, upon clean 
plates, for half the cost of a beggarly uncooked meal at the 
English dining-room over the way. 

You rubbed shoulders with Rossinge,, the barber; Jean 
the laundry-man; Nicole, the bookbinder; Edouard, the 
little working jeweler, and Frangois, the toymaker; and 
monsieur and his family and the waiter sat down together 
at the next table; but they were a lively company, and un- 
commonly polite. 

In the evening old Emile Sandeau, the white-bearded 
cigar-merchant, used to come in and tell fortunes over his 
cigar and bottle of burgundy, and monsieur and the bar- 
ber discussed the chances of another revolution. 

Arnold was made welcome of this place and its habitues. 

Celine, the four-year-old heiress of monsieur, who used 
to twitter Parisian ditties to herself up and down the house, 
fell in love with him, and when he had finished his dinner 
of an afternoon pushed out her pretty little lips and de- 
manded un baiser , which he found a very good sort of 
dessert. 

Arnold began to think that if the supply of street cas- 
ualties, fires, falls of house, extraordinary appearances in the 
sky at midnight, and so on, would but hold out, he might 
save money enough, before his hair turned gray, to settle 
accounts with Mr. Trimble. But if Marian could have 
put her head in at the door of the attic (the chinks in it 
were wide enough to peep through, for that matter) she 
would have been more impatient than ever with poor Gil- 
bert Reade for not having run him to earth before. 


? TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


235 


A clash of hoofs and wheels woke the brooding streets, 
and Arnold also. He went hurriedly to the window and 
looked out, just as a fire-engine disappeared round the cor- 
ner. .Glancing over the neighboring roofs, he saw a wide 
glare in the sky, painted against a background of fog. 

“Fm in luck to-night," said he, and, buttoning up his 
coat, he groped about for his hat. There was half a French 
roll ornamenting the chimney-piece (the only ornament it 
had), and he pocketed it, and made for the door. 

It was tender work going down-stairs in the dark, but 
Arnold knew all the gaps, and reached the bottom unhurt. 
The count's poodle growled when he was unfastening the 
street door; but the count, in muffled tones, bade him 
“again sleep yourself," and Arthur slipped out, and ran 
in the direction of the red beacon. 

There is no need to follow him closely; it is enough to 
say that he was out on duty. When he quitted the fire 
he went as fast as he could to Fleet Street, which is far 
from slumberous at that slumberous hour, but throbs from 
end to end responsive to the groaning of the printing- 
engines. He entered one newspaper-office after another, 
had a brief colloquy with sub editors, up to their eyes in 
telegrams and miscellaneous literature, and left a morsel 
of manuscript with each. Then he put out again for 
home, easy in the assurance that he had provisioned him- 
self for a week by two hours' unimaginative labor. The day 
was beginning to grow, and the cats and policemen, in un- 
equal numbers, had the streets to themselves. 

It is curious to walk the city at this unconscious hour, 
wrapped in the stillness of the desert or the middle ocean; 
to hear the echo of one's footfall amongst the silent, solid 
houses; to watch the shadows slowly falling as the curtain 
of the night is gathered back across the sky, and the stars 
show faint and fainter; to catch the distant sound of carts 
rolling in over the bridges, with their load of vegetables for 
the markets; to taste the clear, unsullied breath of day; to 
note the rare beginnings of the sun; to think on the dreams 
of the horizontal millions around. 

Arnold recalled another walk he had taken months be- 
fore, not through autumnal streets, but through wintry 
fields, with his pockets lined with Bank of England notes, 
and his heart light with hope; but the comparison was not 


236 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


one to be sustained with any degree of comfort, and he 
dropped it, and improved his pace. 

He was leaving the Strand behind, when he came plump 
on that ubiquitous young votary of the muses, his friend 
Dick Bell, who had apparently turned out in full evening 
dress to seek inspiration from the early skies. There was, 
however, a ruddy tinge in his cheek and a brightness in his 
eye which looked as if they might be the effect of a prolonged 
and agreeable supper-party. Arnold had not seen him for 
long, and would willingly not have met him now; but it 
would have been churlish not to respond to the frank de- 
light with which the poet greeted him. 

“ Eureka!” shouted Bell, and danced on the pavement. 

“ What are you doing here at this time of day?” said 
Arnold. 

“ Looking for a kind policeman to put me in the track 
for home. And you, where are you going, you owl?” 

“Home, too.” 

“ 111 take you there.” 

“ I can! give you a bed, you know,” said Arnold, 

“Bed! Who wants bed? It’ll be daylight in ten min- 
utes. I want breakfast. ” v 

There had been a supper-party assuredly, for if Bell had 
had all his senses about him he was too good a fellow by 
far .to thrust himself on an old friend, who was clearly in 
no state to play the host. Arnold, with his sunken cheeks, 
his seedy coat, buttoned to the chin, his weary limbs, and 
everything sad and forlorn about him, wished^ Dick or him- 
self a thousand miles away. But there was a grim sort of 
humor in the situation, and he laughed, and said: 

“ Come along! Ill breakfast you as you haven! break- 
fasted for a twelvemonth!” 

They traversed Garrick Street, and Arnold piloted the 
poet in the direction of Soho. Dick, sprightly as if he had 
just tubbed after passing the night like a Christian, be- 
tween the sheets, babbled of a hundred things — the supper, 
the club, poetry, and the meanness of the Government in 
not improving his salary. He took it as a part of the fun 
when they stopped at the little shame-faced restaurant, and 
the door was noiselessly opened by Arnold. It was day- 
light now, and monsieur, in his cook’s cap and apron, was 
picking his way down the stairs. 

Bell recovered himself a little when Arnold ushered him 


TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


237 


into the bare room at the top of the house, where the 
wreck of the tallow-candle stood on the table, and the 
counterpane was still stretched over the bed. He felt a 
twinge of shame, and turned as if to apologize to Arnold. 
But Arnold broke in with a laugh: 

“ Well, old chum, here we are; these are my diggings! 
But you want breakfast; open the cupboard there.” 

The cupboard-door stood ajar; Bell pushed it open. A 
stone jar labeled “Ink” was its only furniture. 

Dick felt the blood hot in his cheeks; he had never been 
so much ashamed in his life before. He had exposed an 
old friend in his poverty, and he turned his wet eyes and 
grasped Arnold by the hand. 

“My dear fellow,” said Arnold, “ it is my fault, I 
shouldn't have let you come. ” 

“Ho; I am a sneak, a cad!” exclaimed Dick. “ I might 
have known that you were under the wind, and didn't want 
me. It's all the fault of that last glass of champagne. 
I'll never drink a last glass of champagne again as long 
as I can rhyme.” 

“ My dear Dick, don't he a fool. The cupboard's 
empty — what of that? I don't need to keep stores as wo 
used to do, for I can go down-stairs and order a string 
of dishes as often as I've nothing better to do. This, 
my dear child, is the Restaurant Parisien, with a better 
cook than your club can boast.” 

But Dick continued to upbraid himself. Arnold's cheer- 
fulness was a sham, any one could see that. His face was 
pinched and shrunken, his clothes were barely decent; his 
attic had the stamp, not of poverty, but of want. 

“ I'll tell you what it is,” said Dick. “You must come 
out and breakfast with me, and then we'll talk about get- 
ting you out of this place.” 

“ I never breakfast away from home,” laughed Arnold. 
“ Can't spare the time. See no visitors at all till after mid- 
day. Besides, I'm bound to let the house have all my cus- 
tom. ” 

“Then we'll breakfast down-stairs,” said Dick. “But 
first let's sit down and talk. ” 

He was on the point of saying that his friend Reade was 
scouring all London in search of Arnold, but thought he 
had blundered enough for the present, and held his peace 
on that subject. 


238 


TWIXT LOYE AHD DUTY. 


Arnold was genial and tolerably communicative, but Dick 
felt very much as if he were visiting a friend in the con- 
demned cell, and when a comfortable smell of fry arose 
from the lower regions, he jumped up and said he must 
have breakfast. 

They went down, and the appearance of Dick in full 
toilet, and looking by no means as if he had been up all 
night, created quite a stir. The count, who breakfasted in 
dishabille, left his coffee and disappeared, calling softly on 
a whole calendar of saints, and emerged presently with 
shaven cheeks, in which condition he was seldom seen be- 
fore three in the afternoon. Celine went and fetched her 
playfellow, the toy-maker’s daughter, to come and look at 
the Milor Anglais, who had arrived, dressed like the head- 
waiter at the Cafe Royal, to breakfast with Monsieur Lee 
on her father’s cutlets and claret. 

“A man might know worse viands than these,” said 
Dick. “ I could write, not an ode, perhaps, but certainly a 
sonnet or two on a basis of cutlets like these. But,” he 
added, looking round the place, “you must get out of this, 
old fellow.” 

“So I shall,” answered Arnold, “when that editorship 
falls in.” 

“ We won’t wait for that,” said Dick. “ You must come 
and dine with me to-night. There’s a man lately joined 
the club, a barrister, with no briefs but heaps of cash, who 
wants to drop a few thousands over a new paper. You shall 
meet him, and he shall put you on the staff. He’ll do any- 
thing for me, for I’ve introduced him to Cousin Joseph, 
who’s going to take shares in the paper. ” 

“I’m hardly in club form just now,” answered Arnold, 
stroking his threadbare sleeve with an odd expression. 

“ That’s no matter,” said Dick. “ We’ll dine elsewhere, 
on the quiet. You must come, it will be a new start for 
you.” And before he left, Dick had named a meeting- 
place for the evening, and wrung a promise from Arnold. 

When our friend returned home that night he had been 
commissioned to write a series of articles for the new law 
journal to be started by Dick’s friend. 

Madame met him going upstairs to his room. 

“ Monsieur looks not well,” she said. “ He has the pain 
of the head, I think. ” 


TWIXT LOVE AKD DUTY. 


239 


“ Yes, but that is all," said Arnold. “ Up very early 
this morning, madame. " 

f<r I shall take some coffee at monsieur’s room," said 
madame. 

When she went up with the coffee, ten minutes later, 
Arnold was in a stony sleep on his bed. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

HOW MRS. WARREH REDUCED MR. TRIMBLE. 

Letters from Gilbert were received at Three Dykes, 
which said that his quest had been fruitless. 

“ He is jealous," said Marian in an unguarded moment 
to Mrs. Warren. “That is why he has not succeeded." 

Good Mrs. Warren bridled instantly. 

“It is exceedingly wrong of you to say so, dear," she 
exclaimed, with some warmth. “ Not one in a thousand 
would have behaved as generously as he has done. He is 
in love with you himself, and he is doing his utmost to 
bring you to the favored suitor. " 

“ Yes; it was wrong of me. He has behaved very nobly," 
said Marian. 

Mrs. Warren was pacified, and kissed her, and said she 
felt thoroughly distressed for her, and Gilbert would no 
doubt find him before long. 

“ Oh, if he could but find him!" said Marian. “ I seem 
to have grown so selfish lately. I can think only of Arnold, 
lost and in want, as I am certain he must be. I weary all 
of you, and you are all so kind. " 

Mrs. Warren said they were all greatly concerned in the 
matter, but that it was quite natural Marian’s anxiety 
should exceed all of theirs, and she had shown no feeling 
which was not entirely becoming. 

The truth is, however, life was made very uncomfort- 
able at Three Dykes in those days; Marian allowed no peace 
to any of them. She was possessed by a fixed idea. She, 
and she alone, was responsible for what had befallen Ar- 
nold, and it was her duty, above that of every one else, 
to rescue and right him. What was to follow when this 
had been done she had no longer concerned to ask herself; 
but she made no scruple of letting every one see that Ar- 
nold had become her world. 


240 


TWTXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


By turns, she coaxed and goaded her uncle, Mrs. Warren, 
and the vicar; not that she saw clearly what help, if any, 
they could give her; but she must endeavor to quiet her 
brain by proposing this thing and that, by urging one or 
another course on each of her friends in turn, and not spar- 
ing reproaches when she was shown the impossibility of 
almost every suggestion she made. As for Parson Paul, 
he became downright afraid of the Vineyard and its per- 
turbed young mistress; seldom went near it till after the 
hour when Marian was likely to be abed, and used to hang 
out a signal of some sort from one of his upper windows 
when he wanted the society of the lieutenant. He stormed 
at the poor lieutenant in a tremendous way, so that Lem- 
uel began to be as much afraid of the Vicarage as Paul 
was of the Vineyard, and occasionally disregarded the 
signals, which made Paul angrier than anything else. 

Mrs. Warren began to say that she mast return to town, 
but Marian said her dear friend must on no account desert 
her; for though Mrs. Warren was scarcely more fertile in 
suggestion than the others, she was at any rate a -sym- 
pathetic listener, and this as much as anything else was 
what Marian wanted just now. 

One day Marian had an inspiration. She ought to have 
had it long before, but that is nothing to the purpose. 

“ Why,” said she to herself, “ we have none of us com- 
municated with Mr. Trimble! He must know everything! 
How absurdly careless and forgetful !” 

She carried this notion about with her half the day, and 
then took it to Mrs. Warren. Mrs. Warren entirely ap- 
proved it, and said she wondered none of them had thought 
of it before. 

“ But jt is just the way,” she observed. “ The most ob- 
vious thing to do is the thing one never does; I have often 
remarked it. You will write to him, dear, of course?” 

“ No,” answered Marian; “ I shall not write to him.” 

“ Then what will you do, dear?” 

“ I shall go to him.” 

“ Alone?” 

“ Yes.” 

Mrs. Warren let her book fall and laughed. 

“ What are you laughing at?” asked Marian. “ Can I 
not do that?” 


TWIXT LOVE ANT) DUTY. 


241 


r 

“My dear child, no! It is utterly and preposterously 
impracticable.” 

| Marian grew impatient. 

“ I am tired,” she said, “ of hearing that everything is 
utterly and preposterously impracticable. That is what 
you all say to all my proposals. Yet you none of you pro- 
pose anything.” 

“ Well, I am going to propose something,” replied Mrs. 
Warren calmly. 

“ And what is that, please?” 

“ Well, dear, we must go to work in a respectable and 
scientific manner. It would never do for you to call on 
this gentleman alone, in his own office. Think what a sit- 
uation you would place yourself in. I would accompany 
you willingly, but it would not be a bit more respectable 
if we both went together. Indeed, we should find our- 
selves in as foolish a position as ever was. No, that is 
not the 'way at all, Let me see, he is a solicitor. Surely 
I know some one in that profession. Yes, there is Mrs. 
Seeling; her husband is a member of the firm of Seeling and 
White, a firm, I believe, of very high standing. At any 
rate, they send in very long bills, for they once undertook 
an annoying affair for me — when I could not get rid of a 
most troublesome tenant. It is a very interesting story, 
but never mind it now. Let me see, where was I?” 

“ You started with Mrs. Seeling,” said Marian, not quite 
perceiving the drift of Mrs. Warren’s remarks. 

“ To be sure. Well, I should think it very likely that 
Mr. Seeling and Mr. Trimble, being persons of eminence 
in their profession, are well known to each other. Very 
good; we approach Mr. Seeling through Mrs. Seeling, and 
Mr. Trimble through Mr. Seeling. That is at once respect- 
able and scientific.” 

But Mr. Br unskill knows Mr. Trimble,” said Marian. 

“ That makes a difference,” said Mrs. Warren. 

“ And I think Uncle Lemuel used to know him a little. ” 

“ That is better still. But, for all that, my idea is not 
a bad one. We will go to town, you shall come to my 
house, and I will communicate with Mrs. Seeling. Through 
her we shall devise some proper means of approaching Mr. 
Trimble. Your uncle must accompany us, and we shall 
set him to work in another way. What do you think of 
that?’' 


242 


’TWINT LOVE AND DUTY. 


“ It is the best thing we have yet thought of,” answered 
Marian, delightedly. “ We will go at once, and I will get 
Uncle Lemuel’s consent to accompany us.” 

She asked Uncle Lemuel how he could possibly have 
omitted to communicate with Mr. Trimble respecting Ar- 
nold, and particularly respecting the severance of his con- 
nection with Mr. Trimble’s firm. It may be mentioned 
that the vicar had had a letter from Mr. Trimble shortly 
after Arnold left his employ, but had suppressed it, not 
being quite clear as to the meaning of the solicitor’s 
rather enigmatical epistle. The lieutenant, in answer to 
Marian, said it was certainly culpable that no one had 
written to Mr. Trimble. 

Marian then gave him Mrs. Warren’s proposals, to 
which the lieutenant said he could not object. He agreed 
to go with them to town, and two days later they were in- 
stalled in Mrs. Warren’s house in Bayswater. Parson Paul 
breathed an ampler air when they had gone, and he was 
free to range his pastures again. 

“ It will be better in London than at Three Dykes, at 
all events,” Marian had thought; but when town was 
reached, and she glimpsed the streets stretching endlessly 
toward every point, and remembered through how many 
miles of brick and mortar they had driven from Mrs. War- 
ren’s house to the docks on their way to Madeira, her 
heart sunk within her, and for the first time she appreci- 
ated the immensity of the task she had imposed on Gilbert. 

“ What is the matter, dear? you look quite dazed,” said 
Mrs. Warren, laying a hand on her arm, as they were 
being driven from the station to her house. 

“ It is so big!” answered Marian, emphasizing the last 
two words with a long-drawn sigh. “ Who could find any- 
thing or anybody here?” 

“ Wait till you and I begin,” said Mrs. Warren. “ Men 
are not at all so useful in these affairs as they are supposed 
to be. I have noticed a singular inaptitude in them for 
inquiries of this sort.” 

The lieutenant bowed and smiled, as if acquiescing fully 
in this wholesale disparagement of the sex. 

Gilbert, having been apprised of their coming, was a7i 
early visitor. 

“My good knight-errant,” said Marian, when he sat 
himself on the sofa beside her; “your labors have been 


’TWIXT loye and duty. 


243 


greater than I believed. I do not wonder that you have 
not succeeded. ” 

“ True I have not succeeded yet; but neither have I 
given up trying,” was the answer. 

He wondered, as he looked at her sitting there in her 
fresh beauty, her face kindled by the narrative he had given 
her of his unrewarded efforts, whether the object of their 
great concern was worthy of it. What would not he have 
promised and paid to know that her face had shone, or ever 
could shine, like that for him ! She was animated, he had 
stirred her interest, she spoke to him without reserve or re- 
straint. It was good to enjoy even this with her, though 
he knew that he was not the cause of her eagerness. 

“ Have you still some hope then?” she asked. 

“ Hope? I live on it!” said he, with a forced gayety, for 
in this way he could bring her to smile and look pleased. 
“ Every day I strike some new path and follow it. I have 
my emissaries, too, who know the road better than I do. 
Depend upon it one or other of us will come up with him 
, before long. ” 

“ How good you are!” she said; “ I think no one but you 
would have done this for me. ” 

And the lover took this as his payment, and went away 
to renew the search with greater energy than before. 

The lieutenant was for calling in person on Mr. Trimble 
at once, but Mrs. Warren peremptorily forbade this line of 
action. Nor would she suffer him to write; she knew, she 
said, a better mode than these of circumventing the man 
of parchments. 

So the lieutenant, when Marian’s importunities tried him 
too sorely, used to go out and ride on the knife-board of an 
omnibus, keeping an eye on both sides of the road at once, 
with a view to discover in any pedestrain the lineaments of 
Arnold. 

A pleasant-looking lady called one afternoon whom Mrs. 
Warren introduced to no one, but received in her boudoir, 
where they were closeted for upward of an hour. 

“What did you think of her?” asked Mrs. Warren after- 
ward of Marian. 

“ Of your visitor?” answered Marian. “ I only saw her 
as she was going upstairs.” 

“ That was Mrs. Seeling.” 


244 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


“ Oh! Tell me everything you said and did, you two. 
Why was not I there?” 

“You there, indeed! You would have spoiled every- 
thing! You would have been disrespectable and unscien- 
tific in your proposals, and nothing would have satisfied 
you. Mrs. Seeling and I are very clever and long-headed 
persons, and we know what may and may not be done with 
propriety. We have arranged the whole plan of the cam- 
paign, and operations will be commenced, immediately.” 

“ Tell me; please tell me,” said Marian, excitedly. 

“ Well, then, there is to be a dinner-party.” 

“A dinner-party! What a dreadfully British way of 
beginning,” pointed Marian. 

“There is nothing like a dinner-party,” replied Mrs. 
Warren, in a quiet tone of conviction. “Anything and 
everything may be done during or immediately after a well- 
ordered banquet. I have never known it fail, provided 
you have a trustworthy cook; and Mrs. Seeling assures me 
that her cook is to be relied on in every dish. ” 

“And what after the dinner, Mrs. Warren?” 

“ Coffee, my dear. Mrs. Seeling has the Turkish recipe. 
It is during the period of coffee that the affair will be 
completed. ” 

“I don't understand in the least what you are going to 
do," said Marian. 

“To be sure, you don't, dear,” replied Mrs. Warren, 
complacently, stroking the girl's head; “ but it is of no con- 
sequence; Mrs. Seeling and Susan Warren know, and that 
is enough. But you look so stupidly bewildered that I 
will tell you. Mr. Trimble is to make one at this dinner- 
party; you and I are to make two more. You will be 
dressed in white, and look very nice and interesting; that 
is all you will have to do. We may not call upon you 
even to open your lips during the whole evening.” 

“I am sure I shall enjoy myself very much,” said Marian. 

“ It is quite immaterial whether you do or not, my dear. 
Your part will be to create an agreeable impression, and 
nothing further. ” 

“ And what are you to do, Mrs. Warren?” 

“ First, Mr. Seeling, who is not to be in the secret at all, ] 
will open fire with a question which it will be given him to i 
put. This will produce the desired effect on Mr. Trimble, 
and I shall do the rest. If you watch in a discreet manner 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


245 


from some quiet comer of the room, you will see what you 
will see.” 

“ And what is Uncle Lemuel to do?” 

“ We shall leave him at home. Sarah will get him a 
nice little dinner, and afterward he will read the evening 
paper or walk in the park; the fullest liberty will be given 
him.” 

“ And will this help us to find Arnold, Mrs. Warren?” 

“ It will be a poor lookout if it does not,” she replied. 

On a night soon after this, Mr. Trimble remained behind 
after his clerks had left the office, and put on festive rai- 
ment in his inner room. What did he know of plots or 
machinations as he smoothed his tie and gave a nice set to 
his coat? 

When he had finished his toilet, he took a turn round 
the office and glanced into Mr. Jones's room, the same that 
Arnold had occupied. It was scrupulously neat, not a 
stray paper anywhere, but Mr. Trimble frowned and looked 
dissatisfied. “ There's no finding fault with the rogue,” 
he muttered as he went out. 

He took a cab, and gave the number- of a house in Rus- 
sell Square. 

Mrs. Warren and Marian were late in arriving. 

“Is he here?” whispered Mrs. Warren, when she had 
shaken hands with her hostess. 

“ Yes; he has just come.” 

“ Show him to me,” said Mrs. Warren, adjusting her 
glasses. 

“ Behind you, at the fire-place, talking to my husband.” 

“Ah! a solid man, with a slow-working brain and a 
droop of the eyelids. He reminds me of my brother Ed- 
ward, whom I could always manage.” 

A small party, chiefly professional, and most of the 
guests acquainted with each other. The males were al- 
ready talking shop; where two or three lawyers are gathered 
together, the talk is inevitably and invariably shop. 

“ Chubbs had another decision reversed.” “Yes, the 
third in as many weeks. They say he can't get over it.” 
“ A poor lot of Q. C.'s, this last batch; only one college 
man amongst them.” “I don't believe in college men. 
The three cracks amongst the advocates never took a de- 
gree in their lives.” “There's a new man just come out 


246 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


who'll do something good before long; Earl his name is. 
I've put two or three small things in his way, and he's 
pulled them all otf. A West-Countryman; they have long 
heads there." “Ah! lie's connected with newspapers, 
isn't he?" (This from Trimble.) “I distrust a man 
who's connected with newspapers;" and so on. 

To Mr. Trimble, as the guest of highest standing in the 
profession, Mrs. Warren and Marian were both introduced. 

“ What have you done with Arnold?" is what Marian 
would have liked to say, but she had been bidden to be 
very silent on that topic, and all she said was that she had 
not seen the new Law Courts, Mr. Trimble having ques- 
tioned her thereon. 

Dinner. Soup, fish, and with the entrees a little dry 
champagne. 

Mr. Seeling leaned across the table, and said in a careless 
tone to Mr. Trimble, “ What has become of young Lee, 
who was with you so long?" 

Mr. Trimble, who was eating larks with every appearance 
of relish, narrowly escaped being choked by a leg-bone. 
He frowned, reddened, disengaged the bone, looked up, 
and replied, “He is a bankrupt; that's all I know of him." 

“What a horrid person!" thought Marian, and then her 
heart bled for Arnold, a bankrupt. 

“ It was too sudden," thought Mrs. Warren. “ He is 
choleric, and lark bones are really very dangerous things. 
I wonder any of us have the heart to eat the little creatures; 
but since they are dead, and cooked very nicely, it would 
be a pity to waste them. I must remedy matters after 
dinner. " 

Mr. Seeling said no more about Arnold, the subject be- 
ing evidently a disquieting one; and in due course the 
dessert made its appearance. By the time this stage was 
reached, Mr. Trimble was once more of a cheerful coun- 
tenance, Mrs. Seeling having taken care that the dry cham- 
pa e was never far from his hand. 



U nder the combined influence of coffee and music, a 
little later on, Mr. Trimble turned a kindly and not too 
speculative eye upon the company at large, and began to 
be disposed for slumber. 

Mrs. Warren, watching her opportunity, saw that she 
must delay no longer. She seated herself beside him, and 
opened up in this way: 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


247 

“ I heard a name mentioned to you at dinner in which I 
am greatly interested. ” 

“ Whose name was that, madam?” inquired the solicitor, 
smiling on her. 

“The name of Mr. Lee.” 

Mr. Trimble roused himself and looked at Mrs. Warren, 
with an expression half of annoyance and half of in- 
credulity. 

“You knew him, madam?” said he. 

“I have the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with 
him, but I am very intimate with friends of his in the 
country.” 

“Hum! Yes. He had friends, I believe. ” 

“And still has,” said Mrs. Warren, feelingly; “ friends 
who are very greatly distressed on his account. ” 

“What has become of him?” said Mr. Trimble. 

This was a question Mrs. Warren was not prepared for; 
in fact, it was the wery question which, later on, she had 
intended to put to Mr. Trimble. Did Mr. Trimble know 
no more than the rest? 

“ Do you not know?” she said. 

“I don’t know where he is at present,” replied Mr. 
Trimble. 

“ I Wish you would tell me all you do know,” said Mrs. 
Warren, with the softest, most persuasive air in the 
world. 

Mr. Trimble devoutly wished he had gone to sleep just 
ten minutes ago, when it had first occurred to him as an 
agreeable mode of shortening the evening. He wished he 
had not accepted Seeling’s invitation. He wished Mrs. 
Trimble would summon him home by telegram; but, above 
all, he wished Mrs. Warren at the other end of the draw- 
ing-room. Unfortunately he had no wishing-cap, and he 
found himself still face to face with Mrs. Warren, who had 
jnst made a very awkward request. 

But he remembered that he had spoke somewhat un- 
graciously in reply to his host’s question at the dinner-table, 
and thought that if this lady were a friend of his trouble- 
some ex-manager, and an intimate friend of his ex-man- 
ager’s friends, it was probable that his words had left a 
somewhat displeasing impression on her mind. This, at 
all events, must be removed. So he set himself some- 
what unwillingly to comply with Mrs. Warren’s request. 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


248 

“ Young Mr. Lee, madam,” said he, “ came to me in 
great urgency some months ago, just after I had promoted 
him to the highest place in my office, and requested to bor- 
row the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds. I was fool 
enough to lend it to him. I beg your pardon; that is not 
a nice expression. Let me say rather that I was unwise 
enough to accede to his request. He was very pressing 
about it, and as I had always found him an honest and 
steady lad, and had great faith in him, I could not bring 
myself to deny him.” 

Marian, seated in the furthest corner of the room, with 
a music-stand betwixt herself and a too ardent young bar- 
rister, watched this colloquy with interest the more intense 
that she could not of course overhear a word of it. 

“May I ask when this took place?” inquired Mrs. War- 
ren. 

“It happened either immediately after Christmas or 
within a day or two of the new year. I find that I am never 
precise as to dates after business hours,” replied Mr. 
Trimble. 

“ Christmas or the new year,” thought Mrs. Warren. 
“ This explains much. It was just then that they were 
trying to get Marian away to Madeira. ” 

She made a signal to Marian that the attack was pro- 
gressing satisfactorily, and commenced to ply Mr. Trimble 
again. 

“And what followed, if I may venture to ask, after you 
had generously advanced him this large sum?” 

Mr. Trimble winced slightly, and more than ever 
wished himself asleep. 

“ Many things followed, Mrs. Warren, of a more or less 
painful nature. There is no need for me to enter into de- 
tails of the daily routine of a lawyer’s office. Enough that 
I very soon had occasion to repent of what I had done. I 
fear that by my absurd and most unprofessional readiness 
to comply with Lee’s desire I did something to spoil a very 
promising lad. ” 

“ How could that have been, Mr. Trimble? Could so 
good a deed produce such unhappy consequences?” 

“Madam, it was not a good deed; it was very much the 
reverse of a good deed. I unwittingly helped that young 
man to bring serious trouble upon himself, and we were 
both of us punished for it— I, by losing an efficient helper. 


? TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


249 

who might one day have been my partner; he, by losing a 
position which few at his age have enjoyed.” 

“It is most sad,” said Mrs. Warren, earnestly; “but I 
am still not quite clear as to the nature of this trouble poor 
Mr. Lee brought upon himself. ” 

“ I have never been clear as to that myself,” replied Mr. 
Trimble. 

“What then — ” began Mrs. Warren. 

“But this I know,” interrupted the solicitor, “that 
from the day I handed him a check for two hundred and 
fifty pounds a change for the worse came over him. ” 

“ He told you, I suppose, for what purpose he required 
the money?” said Mrs. W arren, more eager than she showed 
respecting the answer this query might fetch. 

“Ho!” exclaimed Trimble, with something of triumph 
in his voice; “that is just the thing he would not do. 
And when weeks went by, and he fell away more and more 
in his work, in his manner, in his appearance, I was driven 
to the worst possible conclusions. I felt convinced, and 
still do, that — you must pardon me, madam — that he had 
allowed himself to be entangled in some discreditable af- 
fair, some liaison , something that would not bear to be 
looked into, and therefore that could not be confessed. ” 

“ And so, Mr. Trimble — ” 

“And so, Mrs. Warren, he left me. His habits had be- 
come altogether incompatible with that strictness of con- 
duct which is indispensable in such an office as mine.” 

“ And you do not know where he is at present?” 

“ I do not. Steps were — hum ! Steps were taken for the 
— the recovery of this large amount, and I believe that, 
as a matter or fact, Lee is at this present time a bank- 
rupt. ” 

“Poor, dear, splendid boy!” 

This was Mrs. Warren’s final comment on Mr. Trimble’s 
story. 

Mr. Trimble gasped, as if he had been struck smartly 
somewhere in the region of the waistband. The slight gest- 
ure with which Mrs. Warren signaled Marian at this stage 
would alone have suggested the analogy. 

“Really, madam,” said Mr. Trimble, when he had suc- 
ceeded in loosening his tongue, “ I do not understand your 
expression. May I be forgiven if I say that you seem to 
know more about this affair than I do?” 


250 


'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


When Mr. Trimble had finished his story he had jerked 
his watch out of his pocket,, as a delicate sign to a lady who 
had (or had had) a husband of her own that Mrs. Trimble 
looked for his coming. 

Mrs. Warren, of course, took no notice of Mr. Trimble's 
watch, and he was sorry now that he had pulled it out, for 
he could not in his agitation get it in again. There are 
few situations in which a man preserves less dignity than 
in the effort to get a large watch into a small fob. 

“ I know more and I know less than you do, Mr. Trim- 
ble," replied Mrs. W arren. “ I know that you have formed a 
complete misconception respecting Mr. Lee and his misfort- 
une. I believe that I now understand the whole matter; and 
if I am right, Mr. Lee has performed an act of the most heroic 
self-sacrifice. You speak of some discreditable entangle- 
ment, but the only affair of the heart in which Mr. Lee has 
ever been concerned is a most honorable attachment to a 
young lady of the highest character. " 

“Is that indeed so?" said Mr. Trimble, with some feel- 
ing. 

“ It is the case," replied Mrs. Warren. . “You yourself 
have met the young lady, Mr. Trimble, and at no very 
distant date. " 

“You surprise me very greatly," said Mr. Trimble. 

“ She is here in this room," said Mrs. Warren. “You 
were introduced to her here this evening by Mrs. Seeling. 
She is the niece of your old college friend, Lieutenant 
Lean." 

“You astonish me profoundly!" said Mr. Trimble. 
“ The beautiful and charming young lady who is now 
talking with Mrs. Seeling, I suppose?" 

“Yes," said Mrs. Warren. “That is Miss Dean. It 
would not surprise me to know that it was for her sake, 
when she was dangerously ill in the winter, and her uncle 
(who is to her in the place of the father she lost when a 
child) could not procure, the means to send her abroad as 
the doctors ordered, that her lover, Arnold, borrowed this 
sum from you. If it were so, you can understand his un- 
willingness to give you any explanation. " 

“ Mrs. Warren, you have interested me in the highest 
degree," said Mr. Trimble, gravely, kindly, and with 
emphasis. “I am open," he went on, “ not only to 
argument, but to conviction; and I should welcome the 


TWIXT LOYE AX’D DUTY. 


251 


certain knowledge that there are matters in which I have 
deceived myself.” 

The good man in truth was completely flabbergasted. 

“1 thank you, Mr. Trimble,” said Mrs. Warren. 
“ Your expressions do you the utmost honor. But it is 
not right that you should have this matter merely at 
second-hand. I trust you will allow me to take steps with 
a view to laying before you what I believe to be the full 
and entire truth.” 

“ By so doing, madam,” replied the solicitor, “ you will 
lay me under a heavy debt of gratitude.” 

He made her a handsome bow, and she withdrew. Mr. 
Trimble, on her departure, found himself with something 
less than the consistency of a polype, and his coffee-cup 
empty of stimulant. 

“ I believe I have made a great fool of myself,” said 
Mr. Trimble, and rose up and went home. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 
oe mr. trimble's subsequent behavior. 

“ It is all going excellently,” said Mrs. Warren to 
Marian, when they were discussing the reduction of Mr. 
Trimble, on the morning after the dinner-party. 

Mrs. Warren was satisfied that she had now got to the 
root of the matter. Arnold owed Mr. Trimble two hun- 
dred and fifty pounds. Unquestionably, it was for Marian 
he had borrowed it. Precisely what had followed, as re- 
garded Arnold's relations with the solicitor, she did not 
know; but she guessed shrewdly enough that Mr. Trimble 
had been annoyed from the first at being kept entirely in 
the dark as to Arnold's object in procuring the loan, and 
that motives of pique and jealousy had had much to do 
with Arnold's ultimate dismissal, since dismissed he had 
evidently been. Undoubtedly, too, it was through Mr. 
Trimble's action that he had been made a bankrupt. 

There was more to be learned, inasmuch as Mr. Trimble 
knew no more than Arnold's friends where Arnold was at 
present; but, at any rate, something had been effected 
toward clearing up the mystery in which the whole affair 
had been involved up to the night of the dinner-party. 


252 


'twixt love and duty. 


“ I am still a good deal in the dark,” said Marian. “ I 
did not much like his appearance; what sort of person did 
you find him?” 

“I found him very like my brother George, dear,” re- 
plied Mrs. Warren. 

“ But I never knew your brother George, Mrs. Warren.” 

“ True, dear; I had forgotten. He had a very good 
heart when you reached it, but in his intellectual parts he 
was what I call fluffy. Now, Mr. Trimble is fluffy; but I 
like him, for his foundations are correct, and he is willing 
to be persuaded. I have gone some way to persuade him 
that he has been behaving like a man without any wisdom; 
hut his lights have not been quite clear, and we must all of 
us act according to our lights. ” 

“ But I really don't understand what it is that you have 
done, Mrs. Warren,” pleaded Marian. 

“ My dear! did you not then understand my signals?” 

“ Gesture is, after all, quite a primitive mode of ex- 
pression, you know,” said Marian. 

“I don't know anything about primitive modes of ex- 
pression, Marian, but I signaled you as plainly as possible 
in the drawing-room last night that I had — well, upon my 
word, you compel me to use a most vulgar form of speech. 
My poor dear brother George had a painful habit of bor- 
rowing pugilistic phrases in his conversation, and when he 
had got the better of a person in argument he spoke of 
having knocked that person out of time. It is a shocking 
style of speech, hut your extreme slowness of apprehension, 
dear, which I wonder at in a girl of your attainments, com- 
pels me to tell you that I knocked Mr. Trimble out of 
time last night. ” 

Mrs. Warren looked so thoroughly ashamed of herself in 
making this draft on the phraseology of her late brother 
that Marian stopped her laughter to offer a humble apology. 

“But, after all, dear Mrs. Warren,” she went on, when 
the apology had been tendered and accepted, “ what is the 
outcome? What was the use of proving to Mr. Trimble 
that he has acted unjustly toward Arnold? Poor Arnold! 
The mischief has been done, you see, and Mr. Trimble 
knows no more than we do where Arnold is at present.” 

“After this, dear,” said Mrs. Warren, gravely, “ I really 
must entreat you never again to have anything to do with 
what you call high mathematics. It is a study which seems 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


253 


to unfit people for grasping the most ordinary facts of our 
common daily existence. You positively can not see what I 
have achieved? You surprise me! We have two things to 
accomplish. We have in the first place to find out where 
Arnold is at present. That we can do without Mr. Trim- 
ble's assistance. When we have found him we have, in the 
second place, to bring about his reinstatement in his pro- 
fession. For that we shall need Mr. Trimble's help. Mr. 
Trimble has, as I believe, made the poor young man a 
bankrupt; he must undo that, for I believe it can be done 
in such a manner that no stain or stigma need remain. 
Very well; now, as the result of what I told him last night, 
Mr. Trimble is already favorably disposed toward us. He 
begins to see that he has been in the wrong. We shall 
prove it to him clearly before we have finished, and I am 
certain that he will do then whatever we ask of him. Now, 
my dear child, do you begin to understand?" 

Marian put her arms round Mrs. Warren's neck and 
kissed her on both cheeks. 

“Dear Mrs. Warren," she said, “you have the best 
brain of us all." 

Mrs. Warren received this encomium as no other than 
her due, but she returned Marian's salute with warmth. 

“And now," said Marian, “ what is the next thing to be 
done. Am I not to be allowed to beard the ogre at all?" 

“ I do not know whether you are to be trusted," replied 
Mrs. Warren, whereat, of course, Marian looked much 
aggrieved. “I don't mean, dear, that you would not be- 
have yourself with propriety, but I doubt whether you would 
quite understand what to do, or how to do it. " 

“You shall instruct me, Mrs. Warren," she answered 
meekly. 

“I could not in any case think of letting you go alone," 
said Mrs. Warren. 

“ Then you must go with me." 

“ No, I think I must remain in the background for the 
present; I have done enough at the front. But there is the 
lieutenant — is he to be trusted? You see we must be very 
careful not to spoil, but to strengthen, the good impression 
we have produced. I am convinced that the assistance of 
Mr. Trimble is necessary, and to that end we must first 
make sure of his friendship. Yes, I think that you and the 
lieutenant shall go together." 


254 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


The lieutenant, for his part, was only too glad to be 
allowed to do something — anything. Lately he had been 
wondering why they had brought him up to town at all, his 
role in the detective service which Mrs. Warren had organ- 
ized being the humblest possible. This going to and fro 
on the knife-boards of omnibuses was very well, but it led 
nowhere, unless to Shepherd’s Bush or the Bank. This 
perambulating of the park was healthy enough as an exer- 
cise; but between the Bound Pond and the Serpentine it is 
a narrow way, and Arnold was not in any of these places. 

“Yes, yes; I will accompany her with pleasure,” said 
the lieutenant, when Mrs. Warren unfolded to him the 
plan of the proposed new assault on Mr. Rupert Trimble. 
“ But is Mr. Trimble prepared to receive us?” 

“I will prepare him,” replied Mrs. Warren. 

Accordingly, very soon after this, she issued this brief 
order during breakfast: 

“You will go to-day, both of you.” 

The old soldier took the word of command as a soldier 
should, without a syllable; but Marian, who was unused to 
military precepts, called for explanations. 

“ Where are we to go? How will he receive us? Is 
Uncle Lemuel to talk, or ttm I to talk, or is Mr. Trimble 
to talk, and which of us is to begin? and — ” 

“My dear, you have said more than enough,” inter- 
rupted Mrs. Warren. “You will see Mr. Trimble at his 
office in Bedford Bow. The reception he will accord you 
will, I imagine, depend principally on your own behavior. 
I think that unless Mr. Trimble himself leads the way, 
you had better allow your uncle to open the conversation. 
Perhaps, dear, it will not be necessary for you to talk at 
all; but if you do say anything, I trust you will be very 
guarded in your language, and not allow yourself to be 
carried away by your feelings. Remember that Mr. Trim- 
ble’s present disposition is a very friendly one, and that 
nothing must be said or done which might induce him to 
change it. ” 

All of which was received in a duly submissive spirit by 
the lieutenant, as an orderly officer might listen to min- 
gled counsel and reproof from his general; but Marian, as 
a young person unfamiliar with the discipline of war, re- 
served to herself the privilege of pouting. 

“ A cab will be ready at eleven o’clock to take you both 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


255 


to Bedford Bow,” said Mrs. Warren, when breakfast was 
over; and as the clock struck eleven wheels were heard out- 
side. . 

The lieutenant had been waiting in the hall for at least 
a quarter of an hour, with his cane in his hand, and his 
cloak, the only martial badge that remained to him, neatly 
draped over his arm. 

Marian tripped down-stairs in a gray dress, which Mrs. 
Warren herself had selected as a color at once modest and 
becoming, which befitted an occasion of some gravity. 
The maid was waiting at the foot of the stairs with a yel- 
low rose, but Mrs. Warren at once rejected it, on the 
ground that if Mr. Trimble had any familiarity with the 
language of flowers — “and really persons in his curious 
and rather painful profession come to know so many 
things ” — he would at once recognize the inappropriateness 
of the emblem. 

“ What does a yellow rose stand for, then?” asked Ma- 
rian. 

“For that which is not true in your case, my dear,” re- 
plied Mrs. Warren, as she dismissed the maid with orders 
to put the rose in water. 

The lieutenant handed his niece into the cab and placed 
himself beside her, and Mrs. Warren shut the door on 
them and gave them her blessing and the cabman the 
address. 

“You don't feel at all alarmed, Uncle Lemuel, do you?” 
said Marian, for the lieutenant preserved a grave and 
silent demeanor, though he kept arranging and rearrang- 
ing his cloak on his arm. 

“No, my dear, no; of what should I be frightened?” he 
replied. 

“For my part,” said Marian, “ I don't feel a bit afraid 
of anything or anybody. " 

“ It is very well, my dear, it is very well indeed; though 
for my own part I would not go quite so far as that. ” 

They rode in silence until the cab turned into Bedford 
Bow. 

“ Oh!” exclaimed Marian; “the cab is stopping; this 
must be the place.” 

“It is very likely, for we have driven a long way, but— 
what is the matter, my dear? You are not frightened?” 

“Frightened! oh, no, indeed! But— yes, I suppose this 


256 ’twixt loye and duty. 

is the place. To think that Arnold went in and out of 
this dingy, dusty house for so many years. Do you think. 
Uncle Lemuel, it would be better if you — if you went in 
first?” 

“ No, Marian, assuredly not; we ought, I feel certain, 
to make our entry together; it was Mrs. Warren’s wish 
that we should do so. ” 

They passed into the outer office, where Master Toma- 
hawk Jarvis, who thought Marian would be a charming 
captive to rescue from the clutches of an opposing tribe, 
inquired of the lieutenant his name and his business. 

“ Say Lieutenant Dean has called by appointment, if 
you please,” replied the lieutenant, Mrs. Warren having 
schooled him thus far. 

“ Lieutenant Dean, by appointment, sir,” said the Boy 
Chief, putting his head in at Mr. Trimble’s door. 

Marian’s glance wandered timidly round the office; she 
wondered which of the clerks sat in Arnold’s seat; she 
caught sight of Mr. J ones in the manager’s room, and con- 
cluded he must be Arnold’s successor. She wished she had 
not talked so bravely about not being afraid of anything 
or anybody. 

“ Walk in,” said Mr. Trimble to the boy; but he meant 
that Lieutenant Dean was to walk in, not the boy. 

Marian and her uncle were ushered in, and the door 
closed behind them. 

On the first visit of new clients, Mr. Trimble generally 
decided at a glance whether to receive them sitting or 
standing, but he had already risen from his chair when 
Marian and the lieutenant entered. 

The room looked just as it had done on the day when 
Arnold quitted it — or, for that matter, as it had done on 
any day in any year for twenty years past. The deed- 
boxes of “ Green v. White,” “ Exors. of Simpson,” and so 
on, occupied the same places on the same shelf, and the 
silver hand-bell, the sand-box, and the inkstand stood pre- 
cisely where they always did on Mr. Trimble’s desk. 

Mr. Trimble shook hands with both of them, and was 
the first to speak. 

“ It is many years since you and I met,” he said to the 
lieutenant. 

“It is more than five-and-thirty,” replied the lieutenant. 


TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


257 


“ Five-and-thirty years/* said Mr. Trimble, slowly, “is 
a long time. ” 

“ It is fifteen years short of half a century,” said the 
lieutenant. 

“You are right, lieutenant,” replied Mr. Trimble; “it 
is neither more nor less than that. It is fifteen years short 
of half a century. ” 

“ It is ten years more than a quarter of a century,” 
said the lieutenant, encouraged to find how well he was 
getting on. 

“It is ten years more than a quarter of a century,” 
responded Mr. Trimble. 

“We met last, if my memory does not betray me,” said 
the lieutenant, “at the Great Exhibition of *51.” 

“ That was a very fine display/* observed Mr. Trimble. 

“ I have heard of nothing like it since,” answered the 
lieutenant. 

“ But here,” said Mr. Trimble, turning to Marian, for 
whom he drew a seat near his desk, “here is a young 
lady to w r hom all this is only a matter of history. ** 

“Marian was not born at that time,” said the lieu- 
tenant, who would not have believed that he could talk 
so fluently. 

“ There is no need to tell me that/* returned Mr. 
Trimble, politely. 

“ My niece was not born for twelve or thirteen years 
after that time/* said the lieutenant. 

“I will call no witnesses in support of that state- 
ment/* replied Mr. Trimble, with a gallant smile. 

Indeed, each gentleman was persuaded that in a con- 
versational point of view he was doing himself the high- 
est possible justice. 

Marian thought it was time they left chronologizing 
and came to Arnold. 

A pause ensued. Mr. Trimble sat down again at his 
desk, and the lieutenant took a seat beside Marian. 

Mr. Trimble shuffled his letters and cleared his throat. 

His visitors, did they but know it, could not have come 
upon him in a more favorable mood. It was a charm- 
ing day, and Mr. Trimble, whose temper shifted with the 
barometer, was charmingly disposed. The man had much 
warmth at his heart when one got down to it; we have 
seen him a man of impulse, jealous, and, for one of his 

9 


258 


'twixt loye and duty. 


trade, somewhat sensitive; who could act with meanness 
or generosity, as the mood impelled him. He did a thing 
in haste, and seven times out of ten he repented it at 
leisure. He lent Arnold two hundred and fifty pounds 
in haste and repented it at leisure. He dismissed him 
from his service in haste, and that also at his leisure he 
had since repented. 

The conversation Mrs. Warren had forced upon him at 
the dinner-party the other evening had impressed him 
deeply. It had done so because it had in a moment let in 
a flood of light upon what had until then been a mystery 
to him. It made him see Arnold and his conduct as, per- 
haps, it had scarcely been possible for him to see them be- 
fore. 

The matter had been greatly on his mind since then, for 
at bottom he was a man of thorough honesty, and once 
roused, he did not rest till he had sifted the affair to the 
uttermost. 

He took himself to task, brought under review his whole 
conduct in relation to Arnold, and came to the conclusion 
that if Mrs. Warren were faithfully informed as to what 
she had told him and as to what she had suggested, he had 
acted with something less than common justice. 

Arnold's persistent secrecy in the matter of the loan had 
angered him; Jones's tongue had done the rest. He was 
bound to acknowledge that these two things had been the 
determining motives of his abrupt dismissal of the best 
man he had on his staff. If, then, Mrs. Warren had given 
him the true story — or in part given and in part suggested 
it — he had been the dupe of his own jealousy and of Jones's 
machinations. 

He was curious — nay, he was eager — to have the whole 
truth before him; until he had that, he was not the man 
to confess, or even to hint, himself in the wrong. 

“ My friend, Mrs. W arren," he began, “ if I may call 
her that on so short an acquaintance, was good enough the 
other evening to unfold some matters to me about which I 
had been a good deal in the dark. I need not say more 
definitely to what I refer. You are both, I believe, inter- 
ested with me in what has certainly been a rather sad con- 
cern. To me it has involved much pain, apart from the 
fact that it ended by losing me the services of a valued 
helper. Mrs. Warren told me something, but not all; I 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


259 


think I gathered from her that you, lieutenant, or you. 
Miss Dean, or both of you, were in a position to tell me 
everything." 

“ There is at most hut little to tell," said the lieutenant. 
“Last winter my niece was very seriously ill, how serious- 
ly she herself did not know. The doctors told me that the 
one hope of saving her life lay in sending her out of the 
country. I knew that this was impossible, so far as I was 
concerned. I prayed to God that He would help us, and 
He sent Arnold to be our deliverer. Arnold and my niece 
have known one another from .children; they grew up to- 
gether. Arnold, who, when he was at home, lived almost 
as much under my roof as under his uncle's, was as my 
son, and I knew, what Marian did not then know, that he 
loved her with more than the love of an old play-fellow. 
Arnold was at home at this time. The very night that he 
heard from his uncle's lips how desperate her case was, he 
returned to London, and the next night he came back 
bringing with him bank-notes to the amount of two hun- 
dred and fifty pounds. 

“ With these he came to me on the following morning, and 
forced me to take them for Marian's sake. My conscience 
went against it, but the choice was between life and death. 
I took his money, my niece went to Madeira, and it is but a 
short time since she returned in full health. Arnold was 
the instrument, under God, whereby her life was saved." 

“ All this is as my uncle says, Mr. Trimble," said Mari- 
an, “but it is but yesterday since I knew it. When I 
came home there was no news of Arnold; he did not write. 

I found that he had not written for long. One day I 
learned that neither Uncle Lemuel nor Mr. Brunskill knew 
anything about him; then the whole story, as far as Uncle 
Lemuel could tell it, was told to me, and I knew for the 
first time how he had sacrificed himself for me, had ruined 
himself for me; how he had left you in disgrace and hidden 
himself, and — and — " Her lip trembled, but she mas- 
tered herself. Yet when she tried to begin again, she 
broke down afresh, and ended sobbing, “ Arnold is lost to 
us. We have come to you; will you not help us?" 

Tears had flowed in this room before now; and though 
the lieutenant's eyes were filmy, there was no moisture in 
Mr. Trimble's. But he was ripe for explosion, and he ex- 
ploded. 


260 5 TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 

“ Heaven forgive me! I have done very wrong/ 5 said 
he. “ I should have been this lad's friend; I have been his 
worst enemy! No, not his worst, for I fear I have let my- 
self he the cat's-paw of a man who can be nothing but 
a rascal. " And Mr. Trimble glared at the door, as though 
he would, if he could, pierce it and Jones together. “ I 
have been a very stupid man, a very credulous man, an in- 
sensate man, a wicked man. Do you know what I have 
done? I have dismissed this poor Arnold, this Lee, from 
my service because I let myself think he was deceiving me 
and playing double. That was bad, but I have done worse. 
I have made a bankrupt of him. But he must be righted; 
I will right him myself. It is all the justice I can do him. 
Where is he?" 

“Alas! that is what we do not know," said the lieu- 
tenant. 

Mr. Trimble, still simmering after this thoroughly char- 
acteristic outburst, rapped his desk impatiently with his 
knuckles, and then catching sight of his bell, took it up 
and rang it violently. 

“Mr. Jones!" 

That gentleman appeared immediately. 

“ Mr. Lee's last address?" 

“ Robert Street, sir, close to this; but Mr. Lee is no 
longer there. " 

“ How do you know that?" 

“ I called there, sir, not long since." 

“ What business had you to call? But no matter; where 
is he now?" 

“ The person of the house could not give me any in- 
formation, sir." 

“I don't know what business you had to ask for in- 
formation." 

“I, sir! Why—" 

“Yes, yes, I know; that will do." 

“ Is there nothing further, sir?" 

“ Not at present." 

Mr. Jones withdrew, slightly discomfited, and wondering 
what this might bode. 

“ And this fellow," growled Mr. Trimble, half to him- 
self and half to his audience; “this fellow pretended to be 
Lee's friend. Poor Lee! But he shall be righted, " 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


261 


“ But,” objected Marian, sadly, “ no one knows where 
I he is. ” 

“ Tut! my dear young lady,” replied the solicitor, a little 
I testily; “do you think we can not find a man when we 
want him? I would wager he is within a mile of us at this 
i moment. We unearthed a man we wanted in San Fran- 
j cisco last week, and he was a better hand than Arnold at 
| hiding.” 

“ How can we thank you?” said Marian. “ You are in- 
deed more than kind to us. ” 

“ I am doing now what, if I had had my eyes open at 
first, it would never have been necessary for me to do. I 
will have no thanks, if you please,” replied Mr. Trimble. 

“ But you are kind, indeed,” said the lieutenant, “ and 
I do not forget that we lie under a heavy debt to you; for 
; Arnold's debt is not his, but mine, and it shall be my 
duty — ” 

“ That,” interrupted Mr. Trimble, “ is a thing which 
l' can be talked of at any time, and is certainly of no conse- 
quence at present. We have now to find this poor Arnold, 
and then to right him. ” 

“Will not this righting of him be a difficult matter?” 
said the lieutenant. 

“ He is a bankrupt, poor Arnold!” said Marian. “ And 
they say that leaves a stain for life. ” 

“ I tell you,” said Mr. Trimble, energetically, “ he shall 
be set upon his legs again sounder than ever he was. His 
bankruptcy shall be as though it never had been, for I my- 
self will annul it.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“I THING I SEND THE DOCTOR AT YOU.” 

We left Arnold in a dead sleep upon his bed. The entry 
of madame with the coffee did not arouse him; and madame, 
feeling the chillness of the room, and observing that the 
lodger shivered in his sleep, fetched a couple of old shawls 
from her own room, and put them over him. 

“ I thing I send for the doctor,” said madame to herself, 
[as she took her way down-stairs again. 

I At about midnight Arnold awoke, desperately cold in his 
[lower extremities, and uncomfortably hot in his head, an 


262 ’twixt love and duty. 

absurd arrangement, as he pointed out to himself whil 
undressing. 

“ Ah! madame has been here,” he said, seeing the coffe: 
which madame, by mere force of habit, had placed, to ke(j 
hot, on the hob over the entry grate. 

“As I shall have to pay for it” (though madame, 1 
the way, had not put the coffee to his account), “I nul 
as well drink it,” he went on, moving across to the fir 
place. “ Ugh! cold as the hob. Well, thanks to madan 
all the same; it was good of her to tramp upstairs with it 

He went on with his undressing, his brain in a rath 
somnolent state, until he recalled the proceedings of t]j 
earlier part of the evening, and the commission for woi| 
which he had received in connection with the new pape 
Then he was sanguine again, and thought of nothing b 
the better days that were coming. 

He was half disposed to fetch out pen and paper at one 
but a wretched shivering fit seized him, and he sat dov 
on the bed, and listened to his teeth chattering. Clearly 
man could not do justice to himself or his editor in tl 
ridiculous condition of body. 

“ Sleep it off!” thought Arnold, “and turn out bett 
• copy* in the morning.” So he finished undressing, ar 
got into bed, and slept more comfortably than might ha 
been expected. 

He slept for twelve hours, with scarcely a sound, ai 
rose up feeling better. The new work had put heart in 
him. But madame, when she saw him, kept on sayin; 
“ I thing I send the doctor at you.” 

Arnold laughed; the notion of sending a doctor to a im 
who had just had a promise of unlimited work at a payii 
price pricked his sense of humor. 

He rattled two and sixpence in his pocket and called f 
a whole bottle of red wine at a shilling. The barber liii 
self was generally content with half a bottle at sixpenc 
He called the count to share it with him; and the cour 
who had no false pride about him, drank his share like 
man. 

Then Arnold went up to his room, wrote and dispatch, 
his first article, and by return of post received a letter fro 
the editor complimenting him on his style. The edit 
was a new hand, who did not think it beneath him to coi 
mend good work. 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


2(53 




| Arnold was in great feather, and began to think he might 
e( ion write home again. He had had many thoughts of 
u ose at home, since he had voluntarily cut himself off 
om all communication with them. Had Marian returned 
I om Madeira? What had she said or thought when she 
ffl iew of his long silence? Had they told her of his dis- 
I( ’ace? and what had she said or thought of that? He 
n ,!ver believed that the lieutenant would betray his trust to 
t e extent of revealing their secret; hut if he had preserved 
k faithfully, how hard it must have been for Marian to 
^ ink of him as he knew that she had always thought in 
. :e past. 

ie This, of course, had been the bitterest drop in his cup — 
n at Marian should have heard of his disgrace and known 
>t how to explain it. He had boundless faith in her, but 
■ knew how sorely her faith in him must have been tried, 
0 d often he was tortured when he asked himself how long 
•r faith would endure. 

He was sanguine now, for he foresaw the day when he 
ight leave this creeping in the labyrinth, and go hack to 
, t and tell her everything, and ask her if it were in her 
iart to reward him? 

D | For a few days all went bravely with him. He shook off 
l 'ie disease of the mind that had been stealing on him; it 

| )uld have been well had he been able to do as much for 
s body. W ant of food, and the ceaseless strain of work 
rried over from the day into the night, and the depres- 
>n born of frequent visions for a time when work might 
jil entirely — the cumulative effect of all this had been to 
2 |iuce a condition of body in which he was ripe for sick- 

I ss of the worst sort. 

With so many potent causes in operation, the opportunity 
collapse is readily furnished. A sudden coup de vent , a 
p in the street or on the stairs, a chill, a cold, persistent 
adache, or a slight fit of nausea — in any one of these the 
3tim who is prepared may quickly find his account, 
i Madame, who had a keen eye to her customers, noticed 
at Arnold had lately cut himself down to siege rations, 
ie said one day, when he had dined on a small bowl of 
up, “Mistah Lee, w*y you heat so small? You used he 
ve good happetite. You Traid of you bill? Hay! dat 
t of no account. You heat, and you pay me w'en you 
el." 


2G4 


’twixt love and duty. 


This was just before the turn had come in Arnold’s for 
unes. Now he thought he might avail himself of m;j 
dame’s generosity; but he had been cozening Nature for to 
long a day, and she wanted her revenge. 

There was a dresser in the Central Hospital who had h 
lodgings in Soho, who used sometimes to come to the Re , 
taurant Parisien for his supper. He, too, was one of tl 
strait-pursed fraternity, and had grown friendly with A: 
nold. He took to rallying him on his bad looks. 

<f You’ll be giving us a call one of these days, old fe 
low,” he said, laughing, and nodding in the direction ( 
the hospital. “ I’ll get them to make up a bed for you, 
he added. 

Arnold put it off as carelessly. 

“You’re wanting a new subject for the dissecting-roon 
eh? Well, don’t flatter yourself that you’ll get me.” 

“ I could carve you, my dear Lee,” said the friend] 
dresser, “to a nicety.” 

“ And as you did it you would chuckle in your throat t 
think that you owed me five shillings. ” 

“ I’d send it to a medical charity, on my honor,” said th 
dresser; and they found this such a racy joke that the 
laughed until they woke the cigar-merchant sleeping in 
corner of the room, who said, when they told him whs 
they were laughing at, that it put him in mind of the bet 
anecdote in his repertory. And he straightway proceede 
to tell it to them. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

FOUND AND — 

“ But Mr. Trimble does not find him,” said Marian. 
“He has not had time,” answered Mrs. Warren. “1 
is only three days since you were there. ” 

“And really, my dear,” said the lieutenant, recallin 
his peregrinations on public cars, “ London appears to b 
a place of very considerable extent. ” 

The fact is, however, they were all three somewhat ou 
of heart. There was a reaction after the excitement o 
finding and winning over Mr. Trimble, the one only thin: 
they had accomplished. Gilbert had not been to them fo 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


265 


i 

pme days, which could not but mean that he had been no 
11 lore successful than they. 

10 Mrs. Warren insisted that a little patience was all they 
,,eeded, and the lieutenant echoed all she said; but they 
pemselves began to be secretly of opinion that Arnold 
? ould be found what time it pleased him to reveal his 
f hereabouts, and not sooner. 

They were sitting over the breakfast-table, and the talk, 
y i which they harped always on the same topic, was be- 
aming to flag, when the servant announced: 

1 “Mr. Reade.” 

Marian, who had been crying, made haste to escape by 
side door, and vanished just as Gilbert entered. There 
n as news written on his face. 

“You have found him!” exclaimed Mrs. Warren. 

|] “ No!” said Gilbert; “ but some one else has. 

And he recounted the adventure of Bell, which Bell 
{i inself had told him the night before. With what inter- 
t and curiosity they heard him may be imagined, 
h The lieutenant could hardly wait till Gilbert had finish- 
P i, and then jumped up to fetch Marian, who, he said, 
ust come down at once and hear the whole story from 
a ilbert’s lips. 

s But Gilbert stayed him, and said, with a smile, and a 
xiok behind it which there was no mistaking: 

“I should prefer that you and Mrs. Warren told it her 
itween you. ” 

For doubtless to poor Gilbert this was a heavy message 
at he bore. But he made with a laugh as though he 
3re merely shy of telling her, which he might well enough 
etend, seeing his news was that he, who loved Marian 
mself, had found 'for her the man she loved better. 

The lieutenant silently grasped his hand, and Mrs. 
arren looked very kindly on him, and remembered that 
ying of hers about him, which she kept in her own heart. 
However, there was business in hand. 

| “Does he know of our search for him?” asked the lieu- 
nant. 

“No,” said Gilbert. “Bell told him nothing of that.” 
“ I think perhaps it was wisest,” replied the lieutenant. 

| “ There is no doubt about that,” said Gilbert, “for he 
(is evidently bent on keeping close for the present; and to 


266 


'twixt loye and duty. 


have told him that a search was on foot would probably h^ 
resulted in making him change his quarters.” j 

“ And how did your friend find the poor boy, Gilbe 
I mean in w r hat state?” asked Mrs. Warren. 

“Don't be too particular about that. Aunt Susan,” i 
swered Gilbert. “ We have found him; let that suffice y 
for the present.” 

“ But you don't mean that he is starving, or — or ai 
thing of that kind, do you, Gilbert?” 

“ Oh, dear, no! nothing of the kind. Why, he lives ii; 
French restaurant. ” 

“ A person must pay for his food whether he lives in 
restaurant or anywhere else,” said Mrs. Warren. 

“But when are we to see him?” inquired the li( 
tenant. 

“Well, that I take it is as you please,” said Gilbe 
“ If you want me to be your guide I am ready to go w: 
you at any time. ” 

“ Marian will certainly want us to go at once,” said i 
lieutenant. 

“I think you had better go this evening," said M 
Warren. “You must take your chance of seeing hi: 
If you don't find him, let the person of the house r 
say that you have been, and you must go again i 
morrow. ” 

“ Are you of this mind, lieutenant?” said Reade. 

“What Mrs. Warren says is always the best that can 
said,” replied the old soldier, who had no mind of his ot 
while under the authority of Mrs. Warren's. 

“ Then I propose we start at about six this evening 
said Gilbert. “You had better come and dine wi 
me at the club, lieutenant. We might meet young Bej 
who would perhaps tell us more, and we can start frc| 
there.” 

This was agreed upon, and Gilbert left, and Mrs. Warr 
went upstairs to tell Marian, who sat disconsolate on t 
great divan in the drawing-room. 

“Well, then, they have found our Arnold!” were Mi 
Warren's first words. 

“Oh! but indeed, is it true?” cried Marian, jumping i 
and running to meet Mrs. Warren. 

“Yes; some friend of Gilbert's, who knew that Gilbe 
was looking for him, met him in the street late one nigt 


? TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 267 

V his way from a newspaper-office. Arnold took him 
Jiome with him; he lives in Soho, at a French restaurant. 
We have the address, and Gilbert and the lieutenant are to 

- ro to see him to-night.” 

“But does Arnold know? Are they certain to find 
^ lim? Will he receive them?” 

u “Arnold knows nothing. It would never have done to 
1 ell him, for you see, dear, the poor fellow has been de- 
liberately hiding, and would perhaps have run off some- 

- vffiere else if he had learned that we were looking for him ; 
>ut be sure that Gilbert and the lieutenant will find him 

^ o-night. ” 

■ “ Bid you learn nothing about him? — how he is, what 

le looked like, what he is doing?” 

“ My dear, do not be too curious at present. No doubt 
• le is doing very nicely, for I believe those French restau- 
1 ‘ants are very expensive places to live in, but of course we 
, mow very little just now. The great thing is that we have 
liscovered him. To-morrow, no doubt, we shall have him 
r lere, and then we shall know everything, and everything 
will be right.” 

Yes; this Marian herself believed. Arnold was found; 

[ ;o-morrow he would come and see her. W ould he have 
my reproaches for her that she, albeit unwittingly, had 
irought all this trouble on him? But might not she also 
’eproach him that he had given her all these miserable 
lays? Ah! what mattered thinking? To-morrow she 
vould see him, and it would be well with them both. 

The streets were beginning to be dusky when Gilbert 
Hid the lieutenant were set down at the entrance to 
Wardour Street, whence Gilbert proposed they should make 
:heir way on foot. In a few minutes they came to the 
Restaurant Parisien, and went in. 

“M'sieu* Lee? No, genthnen, he is not here,” said 
madame. 

“ But he is living here, surely?” said Gilbert. 

“ Helas ! Non, messieurs. M^sieu* Lee live not here.” 
“ This is the Restaurant Parisien, is it not?” 

“ But yes, genthnen. Mais, M'sieu* Lee, he live not at 
me Yuse any more. ” And madame looked genuinely con- 
cerned. 

“What do you mean?” said Gilbert. “Do you mean 
;hat he was living here, and has gone away?” 


268 


’TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


“ Helas, oui! it is that. Gent’men, I thing M’sieu’ Lee 
ve’v sick. I thins* he so sick indeed. Fm a sure of it. 1 
thing it—" 

“ Sick? Very sick? But what makes you think that: 
Do you know it, or not?” said the lieutenant, wretchedly 
alarmed. 

“ Gent’men, it jus* this way,” answered madame, draw- 
ing them into a quiet corner of the room. “ I see since a 
fortnight that M’sieu’ Lee he don’t he at. I spik at him, 
and say, ‘M’sieu’ Lee, w’y you don’t he at zeze time?’ an’ 
he say, ‘ Madame, I no got me my //appetite.’ ‘ Mats/ I 
say, ‘you mus’ have you 7/appetite; //eat like w’at you used,’ 
I say, ‘ and pay me w’en you Aabel.’ Well, he he at a leet’l 
mo’, but it seem like it don’ did him no good. Eh Men , 
one day he come an’ say, ‘ Madame, I got me some head- 
aches, and some colds of my legs; I go away a leet’l, and 
get me well.’ Isay, ‘You mo’ better stay w’ere you is,’ 
M’sieu’ Lee, an’ I fetch the doctor at you.’ Mats non , he 
say he know a doctor w’at like to take him in a whiles an’ 
get him well, an’ then he come back at me ’ouse. I thing 
that doctor mus’ be the young doctor w’at used come some 
times, an’ he at his petit souper ’long wis M’sieu’ Lee, mats 
he don’ come no mo’ since M’sieu’ Lee go away, so I can’ 
//ask him. ” 

“ Mr. Lee, then, is gone?” 

“But yes, gent ’men. He go away since four days, an’ 
I not see him again. 

Gilbert looked at the lieutenant, and the lieutenant re- 
turned his look, but neither of them spoke. 

“ Gent’men,” said madame, “you are the friends of 
M’sieu’ Lee?” 

“Yes,” answered the lieutenant — “yes, certainly we 
are. We came here very anxious to see him.” 

“Well, then, messieurs, I ve’y hangshus see him also. 
Mais, look, I thing I don’ see that poor M’sieu’ Lee any 
mo’.” 

“ What do you mean?” said the lieutenant. 

Madame lifted her shoulders expressively, and replied : 
“I thing poor M’sieu’ Lee very sick.” 

To this the lieutenant made no reply, but he said: “ We 
thank you, madame, for what you have told us. Perhaps 
you will see this doctor you speak of, and he may be able 
to tell you where Mr. Lee is. I will come to you again in 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


269 


a day or two. Come,” he added, gravely turning to Gil- 
bert; ff let us go; we have learned all that madame can 
tell us.” 

They quitted the restaurant, and bent their steps west- 
ward. There was a worse ordeal to come — namely, the 
telling to Marian what they had heard from madame. 

The lieutenant looked quite woe-begone, and Reade went 
about to comfort him. 

“My own opinion is,” he said, “that our young friend 
has only played a ruse on us. He got wind somehow of 
what we were doing, and has gone off somewhere else; but 
probably close by, and we shall come upon him in a day or 
two at latest. We are, at any rate, on the track, which is 
more than we could say before. ” 

“ I don't know what Marian will say,” was the lieuten- 
ant's reply. 

“ She is a sensible girl,” said Gilbert, “ and will take a 
sensible view of it.” 

“You will come home with me?” said the lieutenant, 
nervously, for Gilbert's fair broad shoulders were good to 
shelter behind. 

But Gilbert liked that prospect no better than the lieu- 
tenant, and pleaded a late engagement elsewhere. They 
came within a stone's throw of his club, and he said a hasty 
good-night, promising to call early the next day. 

The lieutenant, in a far from comfortable frame of mind, 
went on his way alone, and arriving at Mrs. Warren's 
house, found that lady eating a solitary supper in the din- 
ing-room. 

“ What news?” said Mrs. Warren. 

The lieutenant sat down and passed his hands across his 
eyes, with a gesture that bespoke a world of disquiet within 
him, and looked at her without answering. 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Warren, slowly; “you have not found 
him. ” 

“And am not like to, I fear,” answered the lieutenant. 

“ How is that? What do you mean, lieutenant?” said 
Mrs. Warren, growing alarmed in her turn. 

The lieutenant began to tell her all that Gilbert and he 
had received from madame. 

In the midst of his recital, Marian came in. She had 
caught a word or two at the door, and the expression which 


270 


’twixt love and duty. 


came over the lieutenant’s face when she entered the room, 
and their eyes met, told her the rest. 

She became very pale, but said quietly enough to her 
uncle : 

" You bring bad news, dear uncle?” 

“ Indeed, dear, I do not bring such good news as I had 
hoped to bring,” he answered. 

“ You have not found Arnold, Uncle Lemuel?” 

" No, dear, we were not fortunate enough to find him 
this evening. ” 

" How was that?” 

"Well, it seems he has gone from this place he was 
living at.” 

“ Hid you hear why he went?” 

“ We heard nothing positive. The landlady to be sure, 
had some notion that he was ill, and went away on that 
account. But it seems most unlikely that he would go 
away if he were ill, for this landlady — an elderly French- 
woman, dear, and quite motherly in her manner — appears 
to have been kind to him, and would evidently have taken 
care of him in sickness. Mr. Reade suggests that Arnold, 
by some means or other, had come to know that we were 
looking for him, and has taken lodgings near by, that he 
might escape us for a time, and this I think is very prob- 
able.” 

" Very probable indeed; in fact, quite the most probable 
thing, my dear,” said Mrs. Warren, in a confident tone. 

“ No,” said Marian, “ I think not. The landlady is right; 
he was ill, and he has gone — oh! where has he gone? No; 
we shall not find him now, we are too late. And I — I am 
all to blame.” And her unnatural calm gave way, and 
she broke into violent sobbing, and this passed into hysteria. 

They had much ado to get her to her room, and while 
Mrs. Warren was undressing her the fit came on again, and 
she was ill with hysterics half through the night. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE PETTY-CASH BOOK. 

Master Jarvis, familiarly known to Mr. Trimble’s 
clerks as Tomahawk, or the Boy Chief, found himself in- 
trusted with new duties shortly after Mr. Jones’s appoint- 
ment to the office of manager. 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


271 


Mr. Jones had many little idiosyncracies which he 
judged it well to keep from the knowledge of Mr. Trimble, 
lie had never seen anything to be gained by a too punc- 
tilious attention to duty when his employer's back was 
turned, so the times when Mr. Trimble was not in the 
office were appropriated by Mr. Jones to purposes of his 
own. 

But as Mr. Trimble had an awkward habit of coming m 
when least expected, it was found necessary to devise means 
whereby Mr. Jones might be saved from detection in any 
unprofessional occupation. 

So Master J arvis was named to the office of scout. He 
liked it, and he knew all about it, because he had read of 
scouts in his favorite books with red and yellow paper cov- 
ers, and from these he had learned how to whistle in a soft 
and penetrating manner when the enemy came in sight. 

He was posted at the outer door of the office one morn- 
ing, a few days after the visit of Marian and the lieutenant 
to Mr. Trimble, and Mr. J ones was in his own room in a 
negligent attitude, studying his sporting journal, the 
“ Morning Canter." He computed the odds and examined 
his betting book, and his purse, and then took from his 
desk the box containing the petty cash of the office, of 
which he had control. 

He was thinking it would be as well there should he an- 
other payment on the petty-cash account when Master Jar- 
vis gave the signal which heralded the approach of Mr. 
Trimble. Mr. Jones made haste to put his* paper away, 
and seated himself at his desk. 

Mr. Trimble passed on into his own room, and presently 
he rang his bell and asked for Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones 
closed the door behind him when he went in, as he always 
did. His caution in this matter was the result of memory 
of interviews held long ago in this same room, when Mr. 
Trimble had felt it necessary to address Mr. Jones in terms 
which wounded that gentleman's pride. 

“ Have you the petty-cash book?" inquired Mr. Trimble. 

“Yes, sir," said Mr. Jones. “I was meaning to ask 
you for a payment on account of petty-cash this morning. ” 

“ Let me look at the book," said Mr. Trimble. 

This was a very unusual demand; in fact, in Mr. Jones's 
time, it had never been made before. Mr. Trimble had 


272 


’TWIXT love and duty. 


perhaps no special reason for asking to see the hook, but 
the old feeling of distrust had grown in him again, and he 
had persuaded himself, not without grounds, that Mr. 
Joneses department required a little occasional supervision. 
Mr. Jones went out to fetch the book. 

In the petty-cash book entries were made of disburse- 
ment for stamps and sundry small office expenses. Some- 
times, when the cash-box was empty, Mr. Jones made 
these payments out of his own pocket, as his predecessors 
had been in the habit of doing, and occasionally, when the 
box had been replenished, he borrowed a sovereign for 
his own use, which his predecessors had not been in the 
habit of doing. 

Taking the book out of his desk, he ran his eye hurried- 
ly over the last page on which entries had been made, and 
noted one or two figures which gave him a momentary 
qualm. But there was no time to amend them, and Mr. 
Trimble’s examination of the book was not likely to be 
critical. 

“ Here it is, sir,” said Mr. Jones, presenting the book to 
Mr. Trimble. 

Mr. Trimble took it and put it on one side, saying that 
he would look into it. This again was unusual, but Mr. 
J ones had no choice but to leave the book and retire. 

He had no sooner left the room than Mr. Trimble took 
up the book and began to turn over the leaves. He did so 
indifferently at first, but presently his examination of the 
entries became closer, and at length he came to a page 
which, after scanning it carefully, he turned down, with an 
exclamation which was midway between a chuckle of tri- 
umph and a note of disgust. He found other similar pages, 
and turned them all down. 

Then he rang his bell, and summoned Mr. Jones again. 

“Some things here I don’t understand,” said Mr. 
Trimble. 

“Indeed, sir; what are they?” inquired Mr. Jones, with 
an air which bespoke him ready to explain anything and 
everything. 

“Ho you make all these entries when the payments are 
made?” asked Mr. Trimble. 

Mr. Jones assured the solicitor that that was his practice. 

“ How do you account for entries like these?” said Mr, 


TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


273 


Trimble, and he showed a page of the book which con- 
tained the following amongst other entries: 


£ s. cl. 

Stamps : Affidavits in Green v. Grey . .076 

Postages: Admiral Graeme’s audit notices , 0 17 0 

Cabs 050 

Stamps: To office copies, Green v. Grey . 0 7 6 

The first and the fourth entries, it will be noticed, are in 
effect identical, and to these Mr. Trimble called Mr. Jones's 
attention. 

“It almost looks as though I had made the same entry 
twice over, sir," said Mr. Jones, with a brave effort at a 
' smile. 

“ It has that appearance to me," replied Mr. Trimble, 
dryly. “ And how do you explain this?" he went on; “ and 
this? and this?" And he showed three or four other pages 
which he had turned down, all bearing similar entries. “ It 
almost looks as though you had made quite a number of 
entries twice over," said Mr. Trimble dryly. 

“ At first sight it certainly has that appearance, sir," 
answered Mr. Jones; “but it cannot really be so, for I am 
most careful in making the entries. If you will give me 
the book, sir, I will look into it at once, and see how the 
mistakes can have occurred." 

“H'm! Well, no; you can leave the book with me. I'll 
send for you when I have done with it," said Mr. Trimble, 
and motioned Mr. J ones to leave the room. 

Mr. Trimble paced up and down before his desk when he 
was left alone, then seated himself again, and devoted him- 
self to a final examination of the petty-cash book. Before 
this was done he had fully resolved himself, and taking out 
his check-book, he observed when the last payment had 
been made to Mr. Jones, and wrote a check to that gentle- 
man's order for his services to three months beyond the date. 

Mr. Jones's day of grace had passed; he himself had 
written in the petty-cash book the order for his own dis- 
missal. 

Mr. Trimble's examination of the accounts had made it 
clear to him that Mr. Jones had commenced a series of 
thefts within a week of his appointment to the office of 
manager. They were the worst kind of thefts, little 
cowardly ones, which showed that the man had deliberately 


27 4 


’twixt love and duty. 


used his employer's cash-box as his own privy purse — rob- 
bing steadily and stealthily without compunction. 

By and by Mr. Jones came in again, and said smoothly, 
but with nervousness behind : 

“ I should be glad if you would let me look at the cash- 
book again, sir. I almost think that the notes from which 
the entries were made have become a trifle confused." 

“ I understood you to say," replied Mr. Trimble, “ that 
your practice was to enter up the book as the payments 
were made." 

“ My general practice, sir. Oh, yes, certainly; but it 
happened now and then that I fell a little into arrears, and 
with the pressure of other business the notes would some- 
times get disordered, but I can easily — " 

Mr. Trimble made a gesture with his hand, and took up 
the check he had just written, and held it out to Mr. Jones. 

“What does this mean, sir?" said Mr. Jones, nervously. 

“It means," replied Mr. Trimble, “that after to-day 
I shall not trouble you to return to my office. It means 
that I have considered the terms of your engagement, and 
have written you a check for your services during the past 
calendar month, and for services during the next three 
months which I shall not require of you. " 

“ I am to understand, then, sir, that you are dismissing 
me?" said Mr. Jones. 

“ That is perhaps the plainest way of putting it," an- 
swered Mr. Trimble. 

“ And without a hearing, sir?" 

Mr. Trimble tapped the book which lay before him, and 
made no other answer. 

Jones was a man who could act the braggart always, 
and the bully on occasion, up to a certain fixed point; but 
he had no foundations, and quickly collapsed. 

He saw that his master had him fairly in the toils, and 
that neither the braggart nor the bully would avail him 
here. A moment's reflection sufficed him for a brief fore- 
cast of the future, and the forecast was not comforting. 
To be turned adrift at his age, without a character, meant 
beggary, or at least a return to that anonymous and back- 
stairs existence, the discomforts of which he had proved in 
past years. 

He had a third role, which he reserved for crises — that 
of the penitent suppliant. 


TWIXT LOVE AHD DUTY. 


275 


He tried this now with the time-honored appeal of all 
cravens — “ Won't you give me another chance, sir?” 

But it was too late; and at the best of times Jones was 
not the man to call into play the sentimental side of Mr. 
Trimble’s nature. 

Then he fell back on the despairing heroic and said : 

“ Very well, sir, I leave you at once; and I can only 
hope that you will find another who will serve you as I 
have done.” 

“I hope that I shall not,” answered Mr. Trimble; and 
had the occasion been lighter he would have chuckled at 
his own grim humor. 

Mr. Jones was about to retire, with as much pride as he 
^could muster, when Mr. Trimble stopped him. 

“ I have not done with you,” he said shortly. 

Mr. J ones hurriedly ran over the events of the past few 
weeks in his mind, but decided that the petty-cash hook 
was the worst thing that could be brought against him. 

“ I put you into an office of trust,” said Mr. Trimble, 
gravely, “ and you have abused my confidence as none but 
a bad man would. You have played the part, Mr. Jones, 
of the petty thief. I should have had less contempt 
for you had you plundered my safe instead of pilfering 
shillings from my cash-box. But this is not all that I have 
to tax you with. Can you explain your conduct with re- 
gard to Mr. Lee?” 

<e Mr. Lee, sir?” stammered the culprit, who had long 
since decided to forget this episode in his career. 

“ You made certain statements in reference to Mr. Lee 
which I know now to be absolutely without foundation; to 
have been, indeed, so far removed from the truth, that 
they could only have sprung in a maliciously inventive 
mind, and could have none but a malicious purpose. 
There were certain papers of Mr. Lee’s, you may recollect, 
which disappeared, and were subsequently found in rather 
mysterious circumstances. Did you ever put your hand 
to papers of Mr. Lee’s?” 

“ I — I sometimes put his papers away, sir, when I found 
them about,” answered Mr. Jones. 

“ Ah! from what I recollect of Mr. Lee’s habits, I may 
say that you must have looked very keenly to find papers 
of his about. And when you did find them you must be 
credited with a high degree of ingenuity in putting them 


276 


*TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


away. Your knowledge of law, Mr. Jones, is not, I am 
sorry to say, what I once believed it to be, but I think it is 
sufficient to tell you that the discoveries I have made in 
this cash-book would enable me to place you in a position 
in which you would hardly care to stand. But I am de- 
sirous of avoiding all scandal in connection with my office, 
and if I find you showing a penitent mind by making ex- 
ertions to discover Mr. Lee, I shall not do what it would 
otherwise be my duty to do — I mean in connection with 
your misconduct and these defalcations. " 

It was an opportunity to escape, and Mr. Jones was not 
slow to profit by it. He made a weak-kneed obeisance and 
went noiselessly out of the room. It was near the hour 
which he generally took for luncheon, so he made his exit • 
unnoticed. The day wore on, and Mr. Jones did not reap- 
pear; still there were no questions, for Mr. Jones's habits 
were not those of his predecessors in the manager's chair. 

There was no little curiosity, however, on the following 
day, when Mr. Jones's room remained without a tenant. It 
was not allayed, and by and by each of the clerks declared 
in turn that he had always believed Mr. J ones would leave 
in this way. Mr. Jones's face was never seen by them 
again. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

IN “HOPE " WAKD. 

This business dispatched, Mr. Trimble said: “I will be 
my own manager." He came down an hour earlier in the 
morning, and stayed an hour later in the evening, and very 
soon got tired of it. 

He had reached the time of life when it is worse than un- 
comfortable to breakfast an hour earlier and dine an hour 
later than usual, and Mrs. and the Misses Trimble had oc- 
casion before long to complain of Mr. Trimble's resolve to 
do without a manager. He was perpetually out of sorts, 
and nothing was agreeable to him; and when at length he 
called for the dismissal of the cook, who had been fifteen 
years in his service, Mrs. Trimble put her foot down, meta- 
phorically speaking, and insisted on her husband's taking 
to himself another manager. 

“ It is not the cook who is to blame, Rupert," said Mrs. 


*TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


m 


Trimble; “it is you. At your time of life you need an 
efficient helper in the office, and my own opinion is that 
nothing has succeeded with you since you dismissed poor 
Mr. Lee." 

Mr. Trimble was privately of the same opinion, and he 
was also reminded that as yet he had been wholly unsuc- 
cessful in his efforts to find Arnold. 

“I must take it in hand myself,” he said, and he did so 
forthwith. He wrote to Mrs. Warren, and requested to be 
informed as fully as possible respecting Arnold's last dis- 
appearance. Mrs. Warren replied, and then Mr. Trimble 
sent a message requesting the favor of some further con- 
versation with the lieutenant. 

The lieutenant came, and being for the moment more 
concerned about Marian's state of health than about Ar- 
nold's non-appearance, he told Mr. Trimble what had oc- 
curred the other night, and added that her condition since 
that evening had been such as to occasion some anxiety to 
Mrs. Warren and himself. 

“ You must have her home again,” said Mr. Trimble. 
“ Meanwhile, let you and me look closely into this matter. 
Tell me precisely what you have done. ” 

The lieutenant recounted the vain endeavors of Mrs. War- 
ren, Gilbert, and himself, and Mr. Trimble looked at him 
through half-closed eyelids and listened. 

When the lieutenant had finished Mr. Trimble said : 

“ It seems to me that the proper thing to do is precisely 
the thing which you have not done. You have made no 
inquiries at the hospitals; yet, from what you say, I feel 
little doubt that he is lying in some hospital at this mo- 
ment. You tell me that he was last at this Trench res- 
taurant in Soho. I make no doubt that he went straight 
from there to a hospital. The nearest hospital is the Cen- 
tral; we will inquire there this evening.” 

And to the Central Hospital they went in Mr. Trimble's 
brougham. Mr. Trimble, at the lieutenant's request, un- 
dertook the office of spokesman. He gave Arnold's name, 
and the date at which he would have been likely to claim 
admittance. The answer was that no such patient had 
been received in the hospital. 

Mr. Trimble went over his story again, and received 
the same answer, but was told that he might, if lie 
pleased, make application at the various wards. He did 


m 


'twixt loye and duty. 


so, iii company with the lieutenant, but met with no better 
success. 

“I am puzzled,” said Mr. Trimble, as he and the lieu- 
tenant drove away from the hospital. “ I had a conviction 
that our inquiries would have ended here. There can be 
little doubt that the poor fellow went away sick to some 
hospital — to which should he have gone if not to this, which 
is within a stone's throw of the place he was lodging at? If 
we knew the name of that dresser you speak of, whom he 
made acquaintance with at the restaurant, I fancy we should 
not have much further to seek. " 

They went to the restaurant and interviewed madame. 
But she had not seen the medical gentleman since M'sieu' 
Lee went away, and she had never known his name. 

“Well make a round of all the hospitals," said Mr. 
Trimble; and so they did, but were no nearer the object of 
their search than when they first set out. 

The lieutenant was in despair, and Mr. Trimble did not 
conceal his annoyance. 

They returned to the Central Hospital, and Mr. Trimble 
said he was certain that Arnold was there. The authori- 
ties were equally certain that he was not, and once more 
the seekers found themselves completely baffled. 

The lieutenant lacked the nerve to sustain an inquiry of 
this sort, and he wearied the solicitor besides with his daily 
reports of the troubled state of Marian. Mr. Trimble saw 
that to work in peace he must work alone, so he told this 
frankly to the lieutenant, and repeated the expression of 
his belief that Marian would do better at home in this crisis 
than in London. 

The lieutenant saw the drift of the solicitor's argument, 
and its wisdom; he got Mrs. Warren to support him, the 
result being that he and Marian went home again to Three 
Dykes. 

“Now, then," said Mr. Trimble, “for another trial on 
fresh lines. " 

He went to the office of a well-known private-inquiry 
agent, in a side street leading out of the Strand, and was 
shown up immediately on sending in his card. 

He was ushered into a room strongly resembling a certain 
inner chamber in Scotland Yard, which perhaps you have 
never visited. 

The inquiry agent, an ex-policeman, was a lean, gray 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


279 


man, with a somewhat clerical appearance, and a cast in 
his eye. The extensive and important nature of his busi- 
ness was indicated by the contents of the well-filled pigeon- 
holes which made a kind of fortification around three 
sides of a table at which he sat. There were some police 
bills folded together in a bundle before him, and two 
hundred pounds was the smallest reward offered on any of 
them. The literature neatly bestowed in a case with glass 
doors, behind the inquiry agent's chair, was concerned 
almost exclusively with crime and criminals, and choice of 
its kind. 

The solicitor and the detective bowed to one another, and 
Mr. Trimble took the chair that was offered him. 

In a professional sense the men were related (though Mr. 
Trimble would have looked at you in a very unpleasant 
manner if you had ventured to tell him so), but in the 
actual practice of their respective callings they moved on 
widely different lines. They both saw more of the seamy 
than of the sound side of life, but the detective saw a 
seamier side than Mr. Trimble. He stood at the top of 
one of the queerest, ugliest, and least reputable professions 
under the sun, and in his leisure hours he collected butter- 
flies and classified them in a scientific manner. He was an 
obsequious man, and would bite his nails when not other- 
wise engaged. 

“ What can I have the pleasure of doing for you, sir?" 
he inquired of Mr. Trimble, and as he spoke he carelessly 
unfolded a document wherein mention was made of a re- 
ward of one thousand pounds which would be given for 
information leading to the discovery of some one who was 
much wanted in connection with an interesting robbery of 
bonds. He did this by way of conveying a courteous re- 
minder to Mr. Trimble that his business was not of the 
twopenny-halfpenny order. 

Mr. Trimble unfolded some part of his mission, and the 
inquiry agent jumped at once to his own conclusion. 

“ Do* you — ah!— do you intend to prosecute?" he said, 
feeling his way quietly. 

“ Certainly not," said Mr. Trimble. “ Nothing is fur- 
ther from our intention. " 

tc Won't prosecute!" answered the inquiry agent, and 
seemed disappointed. 


280 


TWIXT LOYE AHD DUTY. 


“We simply desire to find the gentleman,” said Mr. 
Trimble. 

“ To be sure,” replied the inquiry agent, “ to be sure. 
Bather grave case, though, as I gather from your remarks, 
sir; hut family considerations, no doubt, and — and so on.” 

“ You misunderstand me,” observed Mr. Trimble, a little 
impatiently. “ It is an ordinary case of disappearance, and 
the gentleman^ friends are anxious to be in communication 
with him again; in fact, they desire to have him back.” 

But the inquiry agent was not satisfied. He knew Mr. 
Trimble, and felt sure that a solicitor of his standing would 
not be likely to concern himself so far as to call in person 
respecting “an ordinary case of disappearance.” There 
was a mystery at the bottom of it which ought to be worth 
money. 

Mr. Trimble saw what his man was driving at, and felt 
that he had come to the wrong place; but he knew the de- 
tective for the sharpest man in the profession, and assured 
that if any one could discover a lost sheep in the wilds of 
London this was the man, he cast aside reserve and told 
the case plainly. 

It was well he did this, for the professor of the secret 
craft, appealed to in this manner, discovered some warmth 
of feeling under his professional veneer, and said at once 
that he would undertake the case. 

When he said this, Mr. Trimble felt that the affair was as 
good as finished, and left the office of the inquiry agent well 
satisfied. 

Arnold was now in a fair way to be tracked down, and 
the truth is that he himself was beginning to be weary of 
concealment. He asked himself what crime he had been 
guilty of that he should any longer play the truant. He 
knew that anxious hearts must be yearning for him at home; 
he burned for a sight of Marian, for the sound of her voice, 
for the touch of her hand. He was sick of toiling in the 
beggarly by-paths of journalism, he who knew himself 
capable of the best work of the profession he had learned. 
He would not have cared had they found him where he lay 
at that moment, but go he could not. Where, then, was 
he all this while? 

It was half -past eight at night in the Hope Ward of the 
Central Hospital. The lights had been turned down, and 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


m 


there was quiet around most of the beds. But at no time 
of the day or night is there absolute stillness in a hospital 
ward. Some of the patients, were settling themselves com- 
fortably to sleep, there were others who waited wearily 
for the sweet sleep of death. An occasional sigh, an im- 
patient movement of the bed-clothes, a groan, or sometimes 
a sharp cry, told of the couch of pain. 

The day-nurses, who had been on duty since seven in the 
morning, were getting ready to leave the wards, the night- 
nurse would be at her post in half an hour. 

By and by a door opened at one end of the ward, and the 
Sister of the ward, in her high starched cap and apron, came 
in with her Bible and prayer-book to read prayers. 

There was alecturn against the wall, and a shaded lamp 
above it. She placed her books here, and the light fell on 
her quiet figure, and everywhere else in the room it was 
dark. She read a part of a chapter, and then knelt down 
and said a prayer out of her book, and from several of the 
beds there came muttered responses. 

Then the Sister rose, and said, “ Good-night to you all,” 
and retired. 

There was one bed over which a nurse, seated beside it, 
kept close watch. Presently there was a change in the pa- 
tient, which the nurse was quick to note. She bent over 
the bed and listened, and then made a sign to another 
nurse, who left the ward immediately. In a few minutes 
she returned, and a doctor with her. 

A screen was drawn around the bed, and when this was 
done every one knew that death was taking place behind it. 
It was soon and quietly over; and by and by a sheet was 
thrown over the corpse, and it was lifted noiselessly out of 
the ward; and the next morning the rest of the patients 
knew no more than that a bed was vacant for another 
comer. 

In the next bed to this lay Arnold, his rest broken for the 
night. 

He was just recovered of a low fever. Taken in the nick 
of time, and under good treatment, it had proved a trifling 
matter, though enough to have given him his quietus had 
he moped on at the Restaurant Parisien. 

He was up and about again now, and as he lay awake 
that night he counted the days until they would give him 
his discharge. 


282 


TWIXT love akd duty. 


When he went into the hospital, his friend the dresser, 
with nice feeling, had suggested that he might, if he 
liked, enter under an assumed name; and this, along 
with the unusual and more or less private nature of his ad- 
mission, was the reason why Mr. Trimble and the lieuten- 
ant had twice been sent away unsatisfied when they inquired 
for him at the hospital. 

Life flowed easily, and on the whole not disagreeably, in 
this huge sick-house. For the most part, somebody had 
just died or was on the point of dying; but so many went 
there (to the medical wards in particular, as distinguished 
from the surgical) who had no other end in view, that 
death came to be classed almost amongst the common- 
places of the ward. 

A hundred things came across the day to save it from 
dullness; and if other topics failed, one could always fall 
back on his own or his neighbor's case, and I promise you 
they enjoyed this as much as anything. Thus, Number 
Five, when he had set down his mug at breakfast-time, 
would turn over on his side and spend a comfortable half- 
hour discussing with Number Four the change he felt in 
himself since the previous night, and Number Four would 
listen and proceed to unfold his own condition, and then 
Number Five would turn over on the other side and tell 
Number Six how he and Number Four were this morning; 
and I can assure you this was very comfortable conversa- 
tion, and not at all tedious. The doctor came in and made 
his round, sometimes a hurried and sometimes a leisurely 
one, with a posse of students at his heels, and the patients 
whose cases presented uncommon features felt a mild grati- 
fication, not unmixed with pride, when the doctor made a 
pause beside them and began, “Now, I want you to look 
carefully at this case. " 

The chaplain came in his turn, and sometimes a police- 
man, to inquire after a patient whose attendance was need- 
ed elsewhere when the hospital could spare him. . 

Persons of a sentimental or philosophical turn interested 
themselves in the progress of the flirtation — which never 
interfered with business — between the junior nurse and 
Arnold's friend, the dresser, the latter of whom looked in 
from his own surgical ward oftener than he need have done, 
on pretense of inquiring after Arnold, but everybody saw 
through this. A consumptive florist's assistant, who lay in 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


283 


one of the beds, said he would take care they had plenty of 
flowers when the day came, but in the meanwhile the poor 
fellow died. 

Arnold was looked after quite well enough, though I do 
not know but it was owing partly to the junior nurse's re- 
gard for the dresser that he had his bread-and-butter cut 
thinner than the others, and a spoon to stir his tea with. 

But these favors were not grudged him by the rest of the 
patients, for as soon as he got on his legs he made himself 
• very brisk and companionable, reading the murders and 
marriages and mortality reports out of the daily paper, 
and helping the nurses round with the mugs at tea-time. 

Arnold was a mere number here, like the rest of them, 
and had a blue paper pinned up over his bed, with his case 
written out and some hieroglyphs by the doctor relating to 
medicine and diet. They were giving him port-wine now, 
and a good brand too, and he shared it surreptitiously with 
Number Nine, who had disease of the spine, and was at 
present in no great hurry to get rid of it. 

Arnold was less content than Number Nine. One who 
finds himself in the hospital, being suddenly stricken down 
by disease after spending the best years of his life between 
a noisome workshop and a home in a three-pair back in a 
dirty court, is not always in a hurry to be sent out of it. 
He is sick, but sickness in a London hospital is better than 
health in some London homes. He breathes a clean air, 
he is fed with cleanly food, he has cleanly and soft hands 
to wait on him, and he hears cleanly voices in his ear all 
day. He is married, perhaps, and has children, and a life 
of pinching here and battling there has not made him so 
selfish but that he is anxious to be free again to use his 
arm for them; but for himself he is better in the hospital 
than out of it, and would as lief as not see the screen 
drawn about his bed, which is a certain sign there that one 
is a claimant for a deal coffin. 

But Arnold was yet of the quick in all senses. He had 
had some small bufle tings, but they had done little to 
knock the heart out of him. He was of good stuff and 
could endure plenty of weather. It irked him every day 
that he was still a prisoner. As much as anything else he 
had needed rest of mind, and now that he had had this 
perforce, he began to feel both mind and body expand 
again; he was pricked with the desire to work; he felt that 


284 


’twixt loye and duty. 


he had toiled amiss and to no purpose; he should not have 
hidden himself; he wanted to get out again and once more 
put himself to the front. 

He worried the nurse and the doctor to pronounce him 
well, and he was just now asking himself whether he would 
not be justified in going straight to Trimble and showing 
him that both of them had acted foolishly, and bidding 
Trimble undo the injustice he had done him. He was of 
this mind on the day that Mr. Trimble went to set the pri- 
vate-inquiry agent on his track. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE TWO LOVERS. 

The poet Bell, and the dresser who Was in love with the 
junior nurse, were solid friends to Arnold in the days when 
he was warded. Some natural curiosity was allied to the 
interest they felt in him. The dresser had been ac- 
quainted with Arnold only since his low-water days, but he 
knew that causes removed from the common must have 
conspired to bring him under. Bell and Arnold were 
friends of old standing, but Bell had been no more in 
Arnold’s confidence than anybody else respecting the real 
reasons of his quarrel with Mr. Trimble and his subsequent 
and consequent misfortunes. Arnold had kept as close as 
ship’s timber, and all his friends could say was that some- 
thing bad had happened. Bell knew Arnold and trusted 
him, and so did the dresser when Bell had talked to him. 
These two made friends over Arnold’s bed, and .after that 
Bell was in and out continually, for the hand-maiden 
whom the dresser loved allowed him free entry on days 
when other visitors were not admitted. It was a most 
fortunate thing for everybody that the dresser and the 
junior nurse were in love with one another. It gave the 
patients something to gossip about, it procured Arnold 
thin bread-and-butter for his tea, and the poet the privilege 
of coming and going in the ward as he pleased: nothing 
could have been better. 

The dresser’s curiosity respecting the gentleman patient 
whom he had taken to friend was still further provoked when 
it came to his ears that two persons had been making per-: 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


285 


sistent inquiries at the hospital for a patient, who, as they 
described him, could be none other than Arnold. He 
learned that they had been twice, and that at the second 
time they had with difficulty been turned away, one of 
them expressing himself certain that the patient inquired 
for was at the Middlesex Hospital and nowhere else. He 
asked whether Arnold had been communicated with, and 
was told that he had not, and the dresser began to wonder 
whether he had done right in recommending Arnold to 
enter under a false name. For the present, however, he 
said nothing to Arnold, but he resolved to talk to Bell. 

Bell came in that evening and was full of talk about the 
new law journal, which he said he had a shrewd suspicion 
that Arnold might edit when he was fit to put the harness 
on again. 

ct And that,” answered Arnold, “is not many days off, 
I can tell you, old fellow.” 

When Bell was going away, the dresser came in and said 
he had just put a man comfortable who had had his leg 
broken in eleven places, and it had given him an appetite 
for supper. He proposed that Bell should go with him to 
sup at the French restaurant, where one might feast Pan- 
tagruelistic fashion, and his purse not shrink much over 
the reckoning. 

“By the way, " said Arnold, “how's madame? If I'd 
had any decent feeling about me I'd have sent her a word 
before this, for she quite believed I was going away to die, 
and she cried some good tears over me. But you've told 
her I'm not a grave man yet, I dare say, one of you?” 

“ Why, now I come to think of it,” said Browne, the 
dresser, “ I haven't been there since we put you up, Lee — 
have you. Bell?” 

“ To my sorrow, no,” answered the poet; “for the old 
marquis in the kitchen has a delicate skill in cutlets.” 

“Come along then,” said the dresser, “we'll go and 
comfort madame about Lee here. ” 

Madame pounced on them at once for news of her 
friend. 

“ Zat po' M'sieu' Lee, w'at you make wis him?" queried 
madame, anxiously, when she proffered the slate on which 
the dishes for the day were pencilled. Bell assured her 
that they had left Arnold comfortably tucked in for the 
night not ten minutes before. 


286 


'TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


“He got some fevers, I think, hey, po' M'sieu' Lee?" 
said madam e. 

“Oh, he's done with fevers/' answered Bell. “You'll 
have him round here for cotelettes aux champignons in a 
day or two." 

“I tell you, gent'men, M'sieu' 'ave cotelettes aux cham- 
pignons , or w'atever else he like, jus' so soon w'at he come 
at me 'ouse, and I don' care noding 'bout ze bill, needer 
don' me 'usban'. I tell you I glad M'sieu' Lee don' die 
zis-a-while; an', gent'men, 'ave you know zat M'sieu' been 
hask for? Mats oui , it jus' so w'at I tell you. Zere is 
two gent'men call at me 'ouse w'en M'sieu' Lee gone since 
tree days, an' zey 'ave say zey want him. An' I say 
‘ Gent'men, you can' see M'sieu' Lee 'cause he not of me 
'ouse any mo' zis time,' an' I tell you zey are f aches w'en I 
say zat. You know who zose gent'men be, sairs? Zose 
gent'men am frens of M'sieu' Lee, mats zey not come since 
a good w'iles now. " 

Bell asked the dresser if he knew anything of this, and 
Browne said he had been meaning to talk to Bell about it, 
for two gentlemen had been inquiring at the hospital for a 
patient who could be none other than their friend. 

“ Did you see them?" asked Bell. 

“No," said Browne, “but they were described to me;" 
and he gave Bell the descriptions of the visitors which he 
had had from the porter at the hospital. 

Bell did not recognize the descriptions, but said he 
thought it would be as well to let Lee know. 

“ I rather fancy," he said, “ that one of them is Trim- 
ble. Trimble was his governor, and, as I believe, at the 
bottom of all the mischief. It was he who put Lee into 
this fix; at least, that's what I believe. He's penitent 
now, I expect, and Lee might as well know it. What do 
you think of him? Will he be fit again soon?" 

“We could send him out in a week," answered Browne. 

“Ah! then it's quite time we began to make a bed for 
him outside. He has been keeping out of sight of his 
friends, for a long while past, but we must have him 
amongst them again. I must tell Beade." 

“ Who is Reade?" 

“ A friend of the family. They set Reade to hunt him 
up a long time ago, but just after I had found him by 
chance one day, and put Reade on his track, he dived into 


’TWIXT LOVE AHD DUTY. 287 

the hospital and told me, when he wrote to me from there, 
not to let Reade know where he was. ” 

“ Yes,” replied the dresser; “but it won’t do to let him 
go hiding again, to live the life he was leading before I 
brought him here, or we should have him in a second 
time, and then it would be good-night!’ You had better 
tell Reade.” 

“I’ll do so, without mentioning it to Lee. But we’ll 
tell Lee, I think, of madame’s gentleman; the same, no 
doubt, whom you heard of at the hospital.” 

They made this communication to Arnold on the follow- 
ing day, and he knew at once by the descriptions Browne 
gave him that the two inquirers were the lieutenant and 
Mr. Trimble. 

The knowledge that Mr. Trimble was looking for him 
was a gratification as well as a surprise to Arnold. It was 
a very considerable surprise, and it showed him that Trim- 
ble’s feelings had undergone a revolution of some sort since 
the morning when he and his old chief had exchanged 
their exceeding frosty farewells. 

Trimble knew the truth then at last? This could hardly 
be doubted; but how had it been conveyed to him, and by 
whom? Curious and interesting queries, hut Arnold could 
fetch no answer to them. 

Upon one point, however, he was able now to give him- 
self comfortable assurance, namely — that on the strength 
of the knowledge that had just come to him he need no 
longer hesitate to go to Trimble, for Trimble now was as- 
suredly aware of the bitter injustice he had done him in 
the matter of the bankruptcy. 

Bell went to the club that night in the hope of seeing 
Reade, hut Reade was not there. So, over a trifle of sup- 
per, our poet composed a letter, in which he said that if 
Reade were still looking for their friend Lee, he could save 
him further expenditure of shoe-leather, for he knew, and 
would tell him, where Lee was. He considered this in- 
formation cheap at the price of a dinner, and proposed that 
Reade should come and pay for the same at the club the 
next evening. 

Now Gilbert had begun to despair of finding Arnold, 
and various feelings were struggling in him at the time 
when Bell’s letter arrived. Suppose that Lee had disap- 
peared for good, as seemed to him not impossible. Was 


288 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


there a chance that another might come to take the place 
of Lee in Marian's heart? Might he be that other — next 
year, or ever? 

Then came the letter of Bell, and dashed his hopes for 
the hundredth and last time. 

He sat down and accepted Bell's proposal. 

He was at the club at the hour named the next evening, 
and heard Bell's recital. 

He thanked Bell, and asked why he had not told him 
this sooner. Bell answered that he had been silent out of 
regard for Lee's own wishes; and then they fell to talking 
over the whole affair, and Bell told Beade some things 
about Arnold which he had not known before, and Beade 
told Bell some things which were liew to him. 

And when Beade had learned as much as Bell knew 
touching Arnold's experiences of the past few months, he 
felt a warmth of heart toward him, and something of ad- 
miration, and spoke out like the good fellow he was. 

“ There is fine stuff in him," said Beade. 

“ Don't you see the meaning of it all? He has gone 
through this to save her, in the first place, and to shield 
her, in the second. A woman might love a man like this. 

“But does she love him?" said Bell. 

Gilbert answered by recounting somewhat of Marian’s 
recent conduct; as much as might be said without unkindly 
betraying her; and the poet replied: 

“Yes, sir, yes. I take these to be amongst the symp- 
toms and expressions of love, a thing which you and I, my 
dear friend, are sensible enough to appreciate only in the 
abstract. As a poet, perhaps, I know a little more about 
the passion than you do; but I think none the worse of 
you, and, if you will give me leave, I will request them to 
bring us some coffee. " 

“Do you think I might call on him at the hospital?" 
asked Beade, when they had adjourned to the smoking- 
room. 

“I think you might," answered Bell. “The visiting 
days are — but no matter for the visiting days, you don't 
want to go in amongst the crowd. There's a pretty nurse 
there who has, I believe, some small regard for me, and a 
word from me will procure your admission whenever you 

Bell, in faet, said a word to 1 the junior nurse on the fol- 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


289 


lowing day, and smiled his best in saying it; but the young 
lady perked up her nice starched cap, and told him the 
days appointed for visitors, and said that on no other day 
were strangers allowed in the ward. 

The poet went, somewhat crest-fallen, to young Mr. 
Browne, the dresser, and that gentleman also spoke a word 
in the ear of the j unior nurse. On this occasion there was 
no perking of caps, nor allusion to the regular days for 
visitors; and Reade was privately informed that he might 
visit Number Three, in Hope Ward, on whatever day and 
at whatever hour he pleased. Such a useful as well as 
beautiful thing it is when a dresser and a junior nurse are 
in love with one another. 

You may be sure that when this permission had been 
given it was not long before Gilbert found himself knock- 
ing at the door of Hope Ward. Arnold knew nothing of 
his coming, but he recognized at once the pleasant-faced, 
handsome man with the straight back, who inquired of the 
nurse in charge whether he could see Mr. Lee. 

It was late in the afternoon, tea had just been served, 
there was a roaring fire in the wide grate, and its light 
played over the bare scoured floor, and over the texts in 
red and blue letters on the wall. 

Arnold, who was sitting over the fire, got up as Reade 
approached. He was pale, and his features somewhat 
shrunken; but altogether he looked rather better than 
otherwise for his stay in the hospital, and his figure had lost 
but little of its elasticity. 

“ Don't think me an intruder, please," said Reade; “but 
I heard from our friend Bell that you were warded here, 
and — well, the truth is," he went on, laughing, “lam the 
holder of a sort of commission from friends of yours in the 
country who are anxious for news of you, and asked me to 
— to look you up. " 

“ And you've had some difficulty in finding me, eh?" 
smiled Arnold. 

“ Well, yes, it's a fact, I have," answered Reade; and 
they both had a laugh over it. 

“You see," said Arnold, “when a man gets under the 
wind he doesn't much care to show his face amongst his 
friends— at least I don't, and— but perhaps you know pretty 
nearly as much as I could tell you. " 

30 


290 'twixt love and duty. 

“ Bell and I liad some talk at the club last night,” said 
Reade by way of reply. 

“Ah! Dick's an uncommon chatterbox; but, after all, 
I'm not sorry you met him. " 

“ Since you say that,'' said Reade, “ I may answer that I 
am very glad I did. My dear Lee, I have heard most of 
the story, in part from the lieutenant and in part from 
Bell, and all I can say is that you have acted like a thor- 
ough good fellow, except,'' he added — “ except, perhaps, 
during these few weeks past.'' 

The nurse came up in her nice starched cap and bib, with 
a great mug of tea in her hand, and said the afternoon tea- 
set had gone to be mended, and asked Reade if he would 
take some tea. 

Reade said he disliked nothing so much as a small tea- 
cup, and that tea out of a pint mug was a pleasure he had 
always looked forward to. 

The nurse said she would fetch him some slices of thick 
bread-and-butter if he liked, and Gilbert replied that the 
caps worn by the nurses in this hospital were prettier than 
he had seen anywhere else. 

“ Have you been warded, then?'' asked the nurse. 

“No, but I should not mind being warded here,'' said 
Reade; and the nurse cut the bread-and-butter quite thin. 

“ Why do you make that exception?'' asked Arnold, 
when this interlude, which ought never to have occurred, 
was over. 

“You would not ask,'' answered Gilbert, “ if you had 
heard lately of your friends at Three Dykes. '' 

“They have missed me, then?'' said Arnold, and looked 
wistfully at Reade as he spoke. 

“ My dear fellow, think of it! Missed you! You dis- 
appear, and leave no trace of yourself. You do not write 
to your friends, and you do your best to baffle every effort 
of theirs to find you. When a man gives his friends the 
go-by in this complete fashion, they sometimes hear no 
more of him until they recognize the description of a body 
fished one night out of the Thames. What was to prevent 
the Thames from being in the thoughts of your friends 
at Three Dykes all these weeks? Missed you, my dear fel- 
low!'' 

“Yes,” said Arnold; “yes, I ought to have sent them 
word before now. Have you seen them lately?” 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 291 

“ The lieutenant and Miss Dean were in town until a few 
days ago." 

“ Was it on my account they were here?" 

“ You can believe it. And they went home again none 
too readily, I can tell you, and with cold comfort; for 
after thinking they had found you awhile back, you dis- 
appeared again more completely than ever." 

“ And you saw Miss Dean and the lieutenant a few days 
ago?" said Arnold, after a pause. 

“I saw them off for the West on Monday." 

“They were well? Miss Dean was well?" 

‘‘ Ah, you have not seen her since she returned from Ma- 
deira. Well, think of a rose half slain by the drought and 
then restored to ten times fuller life. When I left Miss 
Dean with my aunt at Madeira, on my way to the Cape, I 
wondered whether I should ever see her again; I wonder 
now how I could have so wondered. " 

There was a suggestion in Readers tones of emotion kept 
under by an effort. Arnold stole a glance at him, and 
thought he could not be mistaken. A jealous pang shot 
through him. The man spoke with ardor; what right he 
to do so? 

“ I called at Madeira again on my way home from the 
Cape," said Reade, “ and my aunt, Mrs. Warren, was good 
enough to invite me to remain there for a while. We had 
some pleasant expeditions, and I was able to show Miss 
Dean a good deal of the island. " 

“It was very kind of you," said Arnold. “You re- 
mained with them some time?" 

“ I brought them home again to England. " 

Arnold felt puzzled and uncomfortable. Perhaps Gil- 
bert perceived some sudden small change in his manners, 
for he went on: 

“ Miss Dean and I became capital friends in Madeira, 
and she was kind enough to say, when we bade good-bye the 
other day, that she hoped we should remain so. Ell let you 
into a secret, Lee. It is for Miss Dean that I hold this little 
commission I spoke to you of. Oh, yes, you will find Miss 
Dean a great deal better. " 

Arnold silently put out his hand, and the other took it 
and grasped' it; and two men who had been rivals were 
strong friends from that hour. 

And now," said Reade, when he rose to go, “I have a 


292 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


pleasant business to putin hand; I am going to send our 
friends at Three Dykes better news than they have had for 
some time. I am going to tell them that I have found 
you, and I shall add that you will not be long in follow- 
ing my letter. I may say that, Lee?” 

“ You may,” said Arnold, “ and you may tell them also 
that you are a good fellow. ” 

“ I will tell them also that I am a good fellow,” answer- 
ed Reade; and as he went out of the ward the junior nurse 
put her nice starched cap out of the ward kitchen and 
made him a professional bow, which is demure though 
pretty. 

This little lady (you will be glad to know that she was 
married to Mr. Browne, the dresser, at Christmas, whereby 
the hospital lost a good nurse) began to think there was no 
end to the people who called at Number Three, for late the 
same evening a lean gray man with a cast in his eye came 
to the ward and asked if Mr. Arnold Lee was there. 

The nurse did not like the look of this person, so she 
told him it was neither the day nor the hour for visitors, 
and that Mr. Lee had been an hour or more in bed. But 
the gray man, who was obsequiously polite (and always 
looked as if he had just lost his way from the Bow Street 
Police Court and wanted to get back there again), assured 
the nurse that he had no desire to disturb the slumbers of 
Mr. Lee; he was merely making the inquiry for another 
party. 

The gray man, who will be recognized for the private- 
inquiry agent, went back to his office in the neighborhood 
of the Strand and wrote a note to Mr. Trimble; and at 
noon on the following day a letter from Mr. Trimble came 
for Arnold. 

It was brief but kind. Mr. Trimble said that he had 
been in communication with and had seen friends of 
Arnold's; that some mistake — some grave mistake, perhaps 
— had been made, and that if Arnold was not well enough 
to call upon Mr. Trimble, Mr. Trimble would call upon 
Arnold. 

Arnold asked when he could have his discharge. They 
told him that in two days he might leave the .hospital. On 
the third day he took leave of the' cripples he had lodged 
with (but they were drawing the screen around the bed of 
one of them), of the nurses, the Sister, the doctor, and his 


'twixt love and duty. 


293 


good friend Mr. Browne, the dresser (Arnold subsequently 
stood best man to Mr. Browne), and quitting the hospital, 
called a cab, and was driven to the office of Trimble and 
Trimble. 

He cast a curious look around, stayed a moment to re- 
ceive the greetings of his old associates, wondered where 
Jones was, and was ushered by Master Jarvis into Mr. 
Trimble's sanctum. 

Mr. Trimble rose from his desk immediately, and said as 
he came forward: 

“ My dear Lee, I am very glad to see you." 

“ And I, sir," said Arnold, “ am exceedingly glad to see 
you." 

“We ought never to have parted," said Mr. Trimble. 

“ It was no wish of mine that we should do so, sir," 
answered Arnold. 

And then there not unnaturally ensued a slightly awk- 
ward pause, during which Mr. Trimble motioned Arnold 
to a seat. 

“ I have seen friends of yours, Lee," said Mr. Trimble. 
“I have seen Lieutenant Dean, and Miss Dean, and Mrs. 
Warren — a very charming young lady; Miss Dean I mean, 
of course, though Mrs. W arren is a lady for whom I can 
not but feel great respect. I have heard the whole story, 
Lee, and though I still think that you might have been 
more candid with me, I am convinced that you acted from 
high and, indeed, noble motives, and that great injustice 
was done you. That injustice, however, is not irreparable. 
You stand here with a character unstained, for your bank- 
ruptcy — of which I think with genuine pain — has been an- 
nulled. Don't thank me, the annulling of it has been but 
the commonest justice." 

“Ho, sir," answered Arnold; “it is the completest pos- 
sible justice; and 1 thank you for it." 

Mr. Trimble made a deprecatory motion with his pen, 
and went on: 

“But I must say, Lee, that I think you have done wrong 
in putting it out of the power of your friends to communicate 
with you all these weeks. Your friends at home have suf- 
fered the keenest distress. I understand, I think, and to 
some extent appreciate your motives; but it was not right. 
How that I have seen you, I shall send a telegram to them 
at once. But now as to the future. You are already in 


TWIXT LOYE AND DUTY. 


294 

actual fact reinstated in the profession. I have by me a 
letter from Mr. Seeling, of the firm of Seeling and White, 
offering you a position there similar to the one you held 
latterly with me. It is open to you to accept it uncon- 
ditionally or not, as you please; and if you feel any com- 
punction about returning here, I think you could not do 
better than take this position. But — well, Lee, you know 
I am not too anxious to assist in a transfer of your services 
elsewhere. I am growing old, and have no son. I w r ould 
propose that, instead of starting afresh in another place, 
you should remain with me for a year in your former 
position, at the end of which time we might perhaps con- 
clude a more advantageous arrangement by your consent- 
ing to become my partner. ” 

It need scarcely he said that this was a great deal more 
than Arnold had looked for, and perhaps it is not necessary 
to add that he showed a proper spirit of gratitude in ac- 
cepting, not Mr. Seeling’s offer, but Mr. Trimble’s. 

“ First, however,” said Mr. Trimble, “you had better 
go down to Three Dykes and hear what your friends have 
to say about it. I think I may safely predict a Warm wel- 
come for you there. A very charming girl certainly; I 
mean Miss Dean. ” 

You would hardly have supposed that Mr. Trimble could 
throw so much meaning into a glance as he did when he 
said this. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE LETTER. 

Lieutenant Dean and his niece were taking some 
turns in their small front garden, which sloped away from 
the cottage, and showed you wide white fields spread to the 
sky, and glistening hills beyond. Fields white and hills 
that glistened, because the winter had come early, and 
whether you liked the snow or not, it was there. 

The lieutenant and Marian were taking some turns on 
the walk which the lieutenant had just cleared with the 
help of a broom, and I do not say that either of them 
thought the world more than commonly beautiful that 
morning, hut if either did it was not Marian. For Ma- 
rian was thinking that as there was snow at Three Dykes 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


295 


there was probably snow in London, and as she did not 
know wbat kind of shelter, if any, Arnold was furnished 
with, the untimely arrival of winter made her unhappy. 

There was not much talk between them, for the poor 
lieutenant had used up all his consolatory arguments, and 
for a week past had been as dry as the well. As for Ma- 
rian, her looks belied the assurances of health renewed with 
which Gilbert had cheered Arnold over the hospital fire, 
and if her looks were dreary they were like her words. 

They had but very lately returned home, yet to Marian 
it seemed an age, for no news had been received. 

They walked up and down a good while in silence, until 
Marian felt that she must say something, and being a very 
natural girl, who could not speak charitably when she did 
not feel charitable, she said the garden looked worse under 
snow than in any other garb. 

Now the lieutenant thought it looked better, but forbore 
to say so. The lieutenant's garden, in its general character, 
resembled the vicar's house, and the vicar's garden might be 
compared to the lieutenant's house. In his house the lieuten- 
ant loved method, but in his garden he liked nature to run 
wild; and he loved to see a rose-bush straggling over a path, 
and a deserted corner where the gardener had left the 
cabbages and the gooseberry-bushes trespass on the province 
of the flowers. The vicar did not care a small alms 
whether his study were ever put tidy from January to De- 
cember; indeed, when Ann Hanoch took to hand to reduce 
it to order, which she generally did in the spring, there 
were often some peppery words between them, ending, as 
like as not, in the parson's giving her a week's notice, which 
she never accepted. But in the garden he was a martinet; 
not a twig out of place, and the lawn so closely shorn that 
a lean goose could not have made four bites off it. When 
the snow came it hid the trimness of the vicar's garden, as 
it did also the something less than trimness of the lieuten- 
ant's. This, at any rate, was the opinion of the lieutenant, 
but he forbore to express it, when Marian in an ungentle 
moment gave utterance to an opposite sentiment. 

The postman came in sight upon the road, and the lieu- 
tenant — I am not saying that he was looking for a chance 
to escape — said he would go and meet him. Marian said 
she would not, for the postman never brought any letters 
from London. 


29 G 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


The lieutenant went down the road and returned with a 
letter in his hand. He opened it as he walked, and read it 
through hastily. The expression of his face changed, but 
he said nothing. 

Marian was waiting for him at the gate, and he gave the 
letter silently into her hand. Her color deepened as she 
recognized the handwriting. The lieutenant went on into 
the house and left Marian alone. 

She read the letter not so quietly as the lieutenant had 
done, for a cry escaped her lips before she had reached the 
first full-stop. 

There is a pretty fairy-tale whereof the hero is a cynical 
man to whom a little girl in a ragged dress gives a present 
of a moss rose. Many men, cynical and otherwise, had 
had moss roses given to them before, and sometimes by 
young ladies whose dresses were of the best fashion; but 
there never was a moss rose like this one. For this was a 
fairy rose, and, fairy-like, it changed the heart of the 
cynical man. It brought light into his life, it filled the air 
with perfume, it charmed him. It made the world seem 
gay and habitable, he walked along smiling and smiled on; 
and because he could not understand the meaning of the 
change that had been wrought in him, he inquired of a 
mouse who lived with him in his lodgings, and the mouse 
said that this was the famous Illusion rose, every leaf of 
which represented a certain sum of confidence and hope, 
and the fairest and the softest of the leaves stood for Love. 

Now, this letter which the lieutenant had put into 
Marian's hand became to her in a moment what the moss 
rose had become in a moment to the cynical man. It pro- 
duced exactly the same effects in her heart, and what these 
effects were I have told you. 

She went into the house with cheeks as pink as a moss 
rose, and a soft light beaming in her eyes. Her uncle was 
there, and he, too, looked very well content. 

She kissed him, and asked if he forgave her, and he said 
that he was past the age when his little niece need ask for- 
giveness of him for anything. 

“ Uncle Lemuel," said Marian, “ you want a new coat, 
and you must have one." 

“ I have worn this for ten years," replied the lieutenant, 
“ and the tailor is dead who made it." 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


297 


“ There are always plenty of tailors,” said Marian, “and 
you must have a new coat. Uncle Lemuel, at Christmas.” 

At Christmas, my dear! Will it he at Christmas, 
then?” 

If you ask me what the lieutenant meant by it “ it,” I 
can not tell you. 

Now, this letter was written by Gilbert Reade on the 
night before he went to see Arnold at the Central Hospital. 
It merely said that he had at last, to a certainty, found 
Arnold, and that he was going to see him that night. 

Before post- time that evening Marian had sat down and 
wrote a long letter to Gilbert. It was such a letter as a true 
and open-hearted girl writes to a man who has deeply be- 
friended her, whom she trusts absolutely, and for whom she 
feels such love as all but her chosen lover might envy. Need 
it be said that Gilbert's eyes were the only ones, save hers, 
which ever read, or ever will read, that letter? It became 
to Gilbert the dearest thing he had, and for him its value 
was never recalled. Marian and he did not meet again 
until Gilbert's hair and beard were tinged with gray; but 
time nor space affects not a friendship such as theirs. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THERE WAS A FINE MOON THAT NIGHT. 

On the day following a second letter was received from 
Reade. He had seen Arnold, and gave a full account of 
his interview with him at the hospital. He added that he 
believed Arnold would be with his friends in time to make 
the letter he was posting of no great interest. 

They waited at home two days, and three, but Arnold 
had not come. 

Marian asked a little petulantly what this should mean; 
and the lieutenant, who knew that there could be no real 
cause for anxiety now, said he did not know, but that as 
Arnold had but lately quitted a sick-bed he was no doubt 
acting under medical orders. 

And the lieutenant, as we have seen, was quite right. It 
was not until the third day from Reade's visit that Arnold 
saw Mr. Trimble. Mr. Trimble had said to him when he 
was leaving, “ I shall telegraph to your friends to expect 
you immediately.” 


298 


*TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 

“Very well, sir,” said Arnold; “I hope to be able to 
go down to-morrow.” 

He wrote to Reade, who met him at the station the next 
day. There was a quarter of an hour to wait for the train, 
and they spent it in close and intimate talk. Arnold 
learned then for the first time what part Gilbert had played 
in the small drama that was just drawing to a close. 

“ But for you, and these lucky misfortunes of yours, old 
fellow,” laughed Reade, “ I think I might have won her.” 

Arnold looked at the handsome face and brave figure of 
the man, and thought that fortune had been more than 
kind to him, and a good deal less than kind to Reade. II 
y en a toujours un autre , and Arnold wondered how it 
came that he and not Gilbert had been chosen the “other.” 

“Well, jump in,” said Reade — “unless you want to 
send me down in your place. What a welcome I should get, 
eh! What am I going to do? Oh, I may take a trip some- 
where next week. Look to hear of me in a month or two 
amongst the Cambodians or Kamschatkans. Good-bye, and 
a pleasant ending to your journey.” 

They had but time to grip hands, and the train moved 
on out of the station. But Readers face, kindled and glow- 
ing with the fine, unselfish sympathy of his noble nature, 
haunted Arnold during a good half of his journey. Then 
he lay back in the carriage and surrendered himself to 
strange thoughts and feelings in which there was neither 
shape nor order. 

He was returning to his friends a rehabilitated man. He 
had kept the bond he had made with himself, which was 
that he would not see them again until he could do so with 
character and fortune restored. The magician who dwelt 
(from ten to five, Sundays excepted) in Bedford Row and 
summoned his genii with a silver hand-bell had helped him 
to both these ends, and that in so brief a space of time that 
Arnold was still three parts lost in wonder at the sudden- 
ness and completeness of the transformation. He hardly 
believed in himself or his happiness; all that had happened 
in the last two or three days was more difficult to realize 
than the changing features of the scenes through which the 
train was hurrying him. But stranger than anything else 
was the thought that in a few hours he would be face to 
face with Marian. What a tumult this made at his heart! 
And the words of Gilbert Reade kept singing in his ears 


'twixt love and duty. 299 

that it was from Marian he held that commission of his. 
His senses reeled for very bliss. 

But in the lover's as in the Pilgrim's Progress the meads 
and flowered paths are beset with pitfalls; there is the high, 
sharp hill, and Doubting Castle, and the way of burrs and 
briers, and the place of fogs and quagmires, and the hire- 
lings of the enemy are on the watch to harass the traveler. 

Arnold's imaginings were not all rose-tinted that blissful 
journey. He was nursing hopes too high for fulfillment, 
he doubted. He recalled one of her letters from Madeira 
which had made him unquiet because it was kind and noth- 
ing more, and— but the young man really could not make 
himself unhappy, so he gave up trying. 

The day wore on, and when the fast train was exchanged 
for the local one, the pace fell off; but Arnold, though 
impatient, did not grumble, he had plenty to think about. 
They stopped at wayside stations, and took up railroad la- 
borers and fishwives by the dozen, but Arnold was in a gener- 
ous mood, and thought that no doubt there was room for 
everybody. It was desperately cold, but he tightened his 
rug about him, and recalled with a grim laugh the chill 
nights in the attic of the Restaurant Parisien. 

At length the train rounded the bend of the hill, and 
drew up at the little windy barn where Arnold was to alight. 

A very fat man called Job, who drove a coach and had 
opinions about the malt-tax, stood by his horses outside the 
station, indulging contemptuous thoughts about railway 
porters, and ghosts, and postmen who rode on bicycles. 

When this fat man saw Arnold appear at the station-door, 
he left off abusing in fancy the people whom he did not 
like, eyed him for a moment or two with an air of in- 
credulity, and then broke out into demonstrations of wel- 
come. 

“Way, Maister Arnul', haow be yew? Haven a seed 
yew these twelvemonth a'most. Way, haow be yew, 
Maister Arnul', zur?" 

And when Arnold and he had mounted to the box, and 
they had driven off. Job went on asking him haow he did, 
and giving him an occasional clap on the shoulder with 
his great mittened hand, which you can think made Ar- 
nold feel that there was no place like home. 

And then Job started to tell him of the people who had 
died or gone bankrupt during the year, and the landslip 


300 


'twixt love and duty. 


that had occurred on the coast, and the foot-and-mouth 
disease that had carried otf the best of Jan Vinch’s heifers, 
and anything else that he thought would be likely to make 
Arnold regret the months he had spent in London. Fi- 
nally, he stopped the coach in the middle of the road to 
give himself room to sneeze; and when he had sneezed 
until the coach began to rock, and the trees swayed on 
either side of the road, he explained that he had gatten a 
coold en es ’ead. 

You seem to have a bad one. Job,” said Arnold. 

“ Did yew iver hev any o’ them venelators atap yewr ’at, 
Maister Arnul’?” asked Job, in response. 

No, Arnold said, he had never had a hat with a ventila- 
tor; and he felt surprised that at a moment like this Job 
could furnish no more suitable topic. 

“ I gatten a new 'at dree weeks agan,” said Job, “ an* 
cuden tell nohaow wut maide me zo coold atap my A ad. 
A" last I vound et wis thikey there venelator, zo I tuk an’ 
clapt tu ur dree ’ankerchers inzide, bit yer zee Fd gatten 
tha coold already. I wuden wear a 'at wi’ venelators, 
Maister Arnul’, ef I wis yew,” concluded Job. 

“ Yes, Job, yes, an excellent thing a ventilator in one’s 
hat, I am certain,” answered Arnold. 

But he spoke abstractedly, and it seemed as if he were 
not listening. At least, this is what J ob thought, and it 
discomposed him. 

The horses pounded along the snowy road, and the air 
was keen as a blade. Familiar landmarks were left behind 
on this side and that, and they drew near to home. 

“How is my uncle. Job?” said Arnold, presently. 

“ Paas’n,” answered Job; “way, Paas’n Paul be abed, 
wi’ a zight worse coold en es ’ead nor wut I’ve a gatten.” 
And Job was going on to enlarge upon the unprecedented 
illness of Parson Paul, when Paul himself — fourteen stone 
ten if an ounce, with a complexion like a plum, his gun on 
his shoulder, and a great fat hare in his hand — made his 
appearance at the corner of a lane, and bellowed in amaze- 
ment at sight of Arnold on top of the afternoon coach. 

Now, to explain why Parson Paul was here with his gun, 
his hare, and his unique complexion, instead of being — 
where he should have been — in bed, with a poultice; and 
to explain, besides, his astonishment on seeing Arnold, it 
is necessary to go back a step or two in the narrative. 


TWIYT LOVE AND DUTY. 


301 


And, first, it should be said that though Mr. Trimble 
had given Arnold to understand that he intended immedi- 
ately to telegraph to his friends at home, he judiciously 
forgot to do so until within an hour or so of the time when 
he supposed Arnold would be at the end of his journey. 
Consequently, though there was a telegram for the vicar 
lying at the Vicarage at this moment, the vicar knew noth- 
ing about it, and was totally unprepared for Arnold's ar- 
rival. No one at home, in fact, looked for him on this 
more than on any other day, for Arnold himself had pur- 
posely avoided writing. 

About five days before this. Parson Paul had gone out to 
see the hunt. When Paul went a-hunting, it was not to 
look at the horses, nor at the gentlemen in their red coats 
and whisky-flasks, nor at the hounds in full cry over a 
level field; but if he could get a glimpse of the fox, it 
thrilled him from head to foot. He knew to a yard where 
Pug would break, and what line he would take, and on this 
particular day when they were drawing a covert a mile or 
so from the Vicarage, Paul was hiding within twenty feet 
of where he knew the fox would come out, pressed against 
the trunk of a tree as flat as his bigness would allow. But 
he waited so long, with a miserable wind playing all round 
him, that he got chilled to the bones, and in two days he 
had a raging cold, and was sneezing great guns during all 
the waking hours. On the third day Ann Hanoch, with 
uncommon difficulty, got him to bed; for she said that if 
he grew worse he could not preach on Sunday, and she 
knew he would not let the parish hear he was kept abed on 
Sunday with a cold. in his head. 

On the fourth day the cold seemed as if it would settle on 
his chest, and he lay in bed dosing himself with anathemas, 
and rating the whole parish, beginning with the weather- 
cock on the steeple, and proceeding downward, without 
deviation or stoppage, until he finished with the ale-house 
keeper, who always went poaching on Sunday morning. 
His gun was on the window-ledge beside him, his eye ranged 
over the garden and fields, and Ann Hanoch was making, a 
horrid great poultice in the kitchen. 

Presently a hungry hare crept through the hedge in the 
field next the garden, and came with stealthy leaps toward 
the shrubbery. Parson Paul was bolt upright in his bed in a 
twinkling, looking all round the room for his boots. He took 


302 


’twixt loye ahd duty. 


another glance at the hare; she leaped into the shrubbery, 
and Parson Paul leaped out of bed. 

Dressing himself as if he were late for church., he caught 
up the gun, and. let himself out, and if you had seen him 
going down the stairs so as not to disturb Ann Hanoch in 
the kitchen, you might have thought he meant mischief to 
his own plate-basket. 

The hare scuttled as the vicar stepped into the garden, 
but he stalked her for a mile, and shot her just before the 
coach came up. 

Five minutes after he had gone out, Mr. Trimble’s tele- 
gram arrived, and Ann Hanoch took it upstairs. She was 
a slow woman, though very well principled and not easily 
amazed, but she returned down-stairs at some speed, hold- 
ing the balusters as she went. 

“Is it you, Arnold boy, is it you? And never a word to 
warn us!” exclaimed his uncle, when Job had reined in 
alongside the vicar. “Yes, it is the lad himself, as I’m a 
good Churchman! What, you look pale and thin, boy; no 
matter, we’ll have you well again in a week — here’s diet 
for you. Ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!” and Paul held up the hare 
and shook it at him. 

“ But, uncle, I thought you had a terrible bad cold,” 
laughed Arnold. 

“ Why, so I had, my boy, so I had. And I had a fifty- 
pound legacy once; but if you ask me where they are now, 
1 don’t know. Ho, ho, ho! Drive on Job, he looks cold, 
poor lad; I’ll be up with you at the gate. Oh, yes, I had 
a terrible bad — Ho, ho, ho!” 

At the gate stood Ann Hanoch with a telegram in her 
hand and a look of alarm on her face, for she had scoured 
the house and garden without finding her master. But she 
forgot her master when she saw Arnold. She had heard 
that he had been ill, and was all concern for him, but asked 
with proper severity what business he had to be riding on 
the outside of a coach, with frost in the air and snow upon 
the ground. 

He got less scolding than he deserved, though, for the 
vicar came up just then, and the rest of it was transferred 
to him. But for the hare, which he tendered as a peace- 
offering, Parson Paul would have come off badly. 

“ Uncle, where are they V* were Arnold’s first words when 
they were in the house. 


TWIXT LOVE AXD DUTY. 


303 


"Ay, ay, my boy! to be sure; I’ll go fetch them,” said 
the vicar. “ Well make a night of it, I can tell you! You 
there, Ann Hanoch and Keturah, my servants, set on some 
stew or fry immediately, and let Keturah step round to 
J ohn Finch for the loan of his punch-bowl, which will look 
well on the sideboard, though we sha’n’t need to use it.” 

“I must go with you. Uncle Paul, if you are going to 
the Vineyard,” exclaimed Arnold. 

But Ann Hanoch, hearing this, stepped in and put her 
foot down, and it added some weight to an argument, and 
said he should not go out a step that night, not for all the 
sweethearts in the parish. 

Parson Paul said that if one man who was stout and 
growing old could go out and shoot hares with a cold in his 
head and on his chest, another man who was neither stout 
nor old, and had had nothing worse than a low fever, could 
step a few hundred yards to look at his sweetheart, whom 
he had not seen for the best part of a year. And before 
they had finished expounding, Keturah had done some 
cooking on her own account in the kitchen, and the moon 
had risen. 

But Parson Paul and Arnold came off second best in the 
argument, and it ended in the vicar’s starting off alone to 
fetch Marian and the lieutenant to the Vicarage. 

Arnold was left alone, and T can’t say whether I would 
like to have been in his place or not, for there were so 
many conflicting thoughts in him, soothing and tormenting, 
and plaguing and comforting, and confounding, and pull- 
ing him this way and that, that he himself could not have 
answered you plainly whether he felt himself the most 
miserable or the happiest of men. 

There came a noise of feet crunching the gravel walk, 
from which the snow had been swept by Keturah shortly 
after eight that morning. 

Arnold rushed to the porch, and out of the shade of the 
trees which overhung the drive stepped a slender, comely 
figure, and a voice called him by name. 

“Arnold!” it said; “Arnold!” 

It was a woman’s voice, and Arnold caught Marian in his 
arms and took her to him, and kissed her; and it seemed 
from the repetition of the sound as though she kissed him f . 
too. 

Paul and the lieutenant were hard behind, but when Paul 


304 


TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY. 


saw what was taking place, or going to take place, in the 
porch, he faced about, and palled the lieutenant about too, 
and laid his hand on the sleeve of the lieutenant's coat and 
directed his attention to the moon, and said: 

“ Have you observed this moon to-night, Lem? It is a 
very fine moon, and worth looking at; I don't ask you to 
do anything else." 

He looked over his shoulder, and saw that Marian and 
Arnold were going into the house. 

“ They are going in," said Paul, still keeping his hand 
on the lieutenant's arm. “ They would like to be alone 
for awhile. I dare say they would like to be alone for five 
minutes or so, as they have not met for nearly a year. 
Suffer them, my friend Lem, for they are young and you 
and I are old, and must console ourselves with something 
else. Let us console ourselves with this moon, which, as 
I have said, and as you can see for yourself, is a very fine 
moon. " 

But what did either of those two old men care about the 
moon? 


THE END. 


ADVERTISEMENTS. 



- ■q# 

THE BEST 

Washing Compel 

EVER INVENTED. 

No Lady, Married or Sin- 
gle, Rich or Poor, House- 
keeping or Boarding, will 
be without it after testing 
its utility. 

Sold by all first-class 
Grocers, but beware of 
worthless imitations. 


^B^ISrnD03>T PHTSIC! 

GLUTEN SUPPOSITORIES 

CUKE CONSTIPATION AINI> PILES. 

50 Cents by Mail. Circulars Free, 

HEALTH FOOD CO., 

4th Avenue and lOtli St., IN. IT. 


Munro’s Ten-Cent Letter Writer. 


Giving numerous examples of Model Letters upon Love, Friendship, 
Business, and Legal Affairs ; so that the most illiterate may easily learn how 
to compose an effective and correct epistle. Price 10 cents. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing Hous*, 

P. 0. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


WHAT IS SAPOLIO? 

equal for all cleaning purposes except the laundry. 

Wh ~ - 


It is a solid, 
handsome cake 
of scouring soap, 
which has no- 

t To use it is to value it. 

hat will Sapolio do? Why, it wifi clean paint", make oil-cloths bright, anf 
give the floors, tables and shelves a new appearance. 

It will take the grease off the dishes and off the pots and pans. 

You can scour the knives and forks with it, and make the tin things shin# 
brightly. The wash-basin, the bath-tub. even the greasy kitchen sink, will b« 
as clean as a new pin if you use SAPOLIO. One cake will prove all 
gay. Be a Clever little housekeeper and try it. 

BEWARE OF IMITATIONS. 


MUNRO o FUBLIUAllUJNb. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

Pocket ZEd-Itioxi- 

The following books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to an] 
address, postage free, by the publisher, on receipt of price. Pairtie! 
wishing the Pocket Edition of The Seaside Library must be careful t< 
mention the Pocket Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will be sent. 

Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition 
bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, addresses, ant 
number required. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


NO. PRICK. 

1 Yolande. By William Black — 20 

2 Molly Bawn. By “The Duch- 

ess ” 20 

3 The Mill on the Floss. By George 

Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida ” 20 

5 The Admiral's Ward. By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

6 Portia. By “ The Duchess” 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gabo- 

riau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

By “ Ouida ” 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “The Duch- 

ess ” 10 

15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte BrontS 20 

16 Phyllis. By “ The Duchess ”.. . 20 

17 The Wooing O't. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

18 Shandon Bells. By William 

Black 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These Times. 

By William Black 20 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. n 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By William 

Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Yol. 1 20 


NO. PRICE 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. H ;...2 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duch- 

ess ” 2 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile Ga- 

boriau. Vol. 1 2 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile Ga- 

boriau. Vol. II 2 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray 2 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott, 

Bart S 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “The 

Duchess 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess ” S 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half S 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 5 

32 The Land Leaguers. By Anthony 

Trollope. i 

33 The Clique of Gold. By Emile 

Gaboriau 1 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. First half S 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. Second half S 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon i 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot .. i 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 5 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half i 

38 The Widow Lerouge. By Emile 

Gaboriau 5 

39 In Silk Attire. By William 

Bl^ck •••••.••••••••« •• £ 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By 

Bulwer Ly tton S 

41 Oliver Twist. Charles Dickens. S 

42 Romola. By George Eliot S 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. By 

I Emile Gaboriau 2 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition 


NO. PRICK. 

44 Macleod of Dare. By William 

Black 20 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Reade 20 

47 AltioraPeto. By Laurence Oli- 

phant 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James 

Payn 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton. By William Black. 20 

51 Dora Thorne. By the author of 

“ Her Mother’s Sin ” 20 

52 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

53 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

55 The Three Guardsmen. By 

Alexander Dumas 20 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte BrontA . 20 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 

Christie Murray 10 

69 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey. . . . . 20 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowsou 10 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

63 The Spy. By J. Fenimore Coop- 

er 20 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles 

Gibbon 10 

65 Back to the Old Home, By Mary 

Cecil Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man. By Octave Feuillet 10 


67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st and 2d half, each 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

69 Madolin's Lover. By the author 


of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 

mance. By William Black. . . 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell.... .,20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay ? 20 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 

ander Dumas 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the 

author of Dora Thorne ”... 10 


NO. PRICK. 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. 

Black 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By FortunA Du 

Boisgobey 20 

83 A Strange Story. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Ly tton 20 

84 Hai d Times. By Charles Dick- 

ens 10 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen. By Jules Verne 20 

88 The Privateersman. By Cap- 

tain Marry at 20 

89 The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st and 2d half, each 20 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiogra- 

phy 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 

ens. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

95 The Fire Brigade. By R. M. 

Ballantyne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 

lantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Walter 

Besant 20 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles 

Beade 20 

99 Barbara’s History. By Amelia 

B. Edwards 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

101 Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey 30 

105 A Noble Wife. B 3 r John Saun- 

ders 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 


107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st and 2d ha# , each 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold. By Charles 
Dickens 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Rus- 

sell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

1 12 The Waters of Marah. By John 

Hill SO 




THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


tfO. PRICE. 

US Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wight wick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. 

C. J. Eiloart 90 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By“Ouid'a” 90 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 

By W. H. G. Kingston 90 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. and Eric 

Dering. By “ The Duchess ”, 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

190 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 90 

191 Maid of Athens. By Justin Mc- 

Carthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William 

Black 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black. . . 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duch- 

ess ” 10 

130 The Last of the Barons. Bulwer 

Lytton. 1st and 2d half, each 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

135 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal.” By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 
133 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By William Black 20 

139 The Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas. 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 “Storm-Beaten:” God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan.. 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 


By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” . 10 


NO. PRICK. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robin- 

son 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories. By Florence 
Marrvat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler. . 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By £ir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton SO 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila ; or, The Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

By William Makepeace.Thack- 
eray 20 

166 Mooushine and Marguerites. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and Wilkie Collins. .. 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. B} r Mary 

Hoppus 30 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge.. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories. By Wilkie Collins. .. 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat. . . 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 


jendie 10 

386 The Canon’s Ward. By James 
Payn 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. By Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. Mrs. Alexander 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 20 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 The Rosary Folk. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far !” By 

Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of the World.” By 

David Cnristie Murray 20 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 


Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 

thony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. Bv Charles Reade. . 10 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker. 20 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By V/. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 

goon. By Charles Lever. 
First and Second half, each.. 20 

213 A Terrible Temptation. Chas. 

Reade 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 20 

217 The Man She Cared For. By 

F. W. Robinson 20 


218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 20 

219 Lady Clare; or, The Master of 

the Forges, By Georges Ohnet 10 


no. PR-ICE. 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By 


the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 

222 The Sun-Maid. By Miss Grant 20 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstey 20 

226 Friendship. By “Ouida” 20 

227 Naucy. By Rhoda Broughton. 20 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

da” 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt. Charles Reade 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret. By Charles Reade. . . 10 

233 “ I Say No or. the Love-Letter 

Answered. Wilkie Collins.... 20 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.” Bv Charles Reade... 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

238 Pascarel. By “ Ouida ” 20 

239 Signa. By “ Ouida ” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 


251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back” 10 

252 A Sinless Secret. By “Rita”.. 10 

253 The Amazon By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 


“Dora Thorne” 10 

255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

By L. B. Walford 30 


( 4 ) 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICK. 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

geant 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

259 The Bride or Monte-Cristo. (A 

Sequel to “ The Count of 
Monce-Cristo.” By Alexander 
Dumas 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishmaeiite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddou 20 

264 Piedouche, A French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey — 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 20 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fairy 'Pale 

for a Land-Baby. By the Rev. 
Charles Kingsley 10 

267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The 

Miser’s Treasure. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

Marryat.. 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham Edwards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word. By W. E. Norris. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison . 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Haj r - 

den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay ‘ 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 20 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 10 
884 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” . .. 10 


NO. 

285 

286 

287 

288 

289 

290 

291 
298 

293 

294 

295 

296 

297 

298 

299 

300 


301 

302 

303 


304 

305 

306 

307 

308 

309 

310 

311 

312 

313 

314 

315 

316 


PRICE. 

The Gambler’s Wife 20 

Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

At War With Herself. By the 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
From Gloom to Sunlight. By 
the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 
John Bull's Neighbor in Her 
True Light. By a “ Brutal 

Saxon ” 10 

Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne” 10 

A Golden Heart. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

The Shadow of a Sin. By the 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 1U 
Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

A W Oman’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

A Rose iu Thorns. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley 10 

The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 
from the Sea. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne ” 10 

A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 
Love. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 
The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

Ingledew House, and More Bit- 
ter than Death. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 
doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 
Day. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

Two Kisses, and Like No Other 
Love. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Beyond Pardon 20 

The Pathfiuder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Two Years Before the Blast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

A Week in Killarney. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

The Lover's Creed. By Blrs. 

Cashel Hoey 20 

Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

The Blistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Bliss Bl. E. Braddon 20 

Sworn to Silence ; or. Aline Rod- 
ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Bliller 20 




THE SEASIDE LIBRARY —Pocket Edition 


NO. PRICE. 

817 By Mead and Stream. Charles 

Gibbon 20 

818 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fen i more Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

320 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

321 The Prodigals : And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

325 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 


328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 

329 The Polish Jew. ByErckmann- 


Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. By 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch. A Novel 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

338 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Li bbey 20 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “The Duchess”.,.. 10 
843 The Talk of the Town. By 

James Payn 20 

344 “The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 20 

315 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

846 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 


no. PRICE. 


349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

351 The House on the Moor. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

rett 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 
Felbermann 10 

356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyle.., 20 

357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 The Water-Witch. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 20 

361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or, The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 


367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret ; or, The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 
•75 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 
Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 
Guards 20 

376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

By the author of “ My Duc- 
ats and My Daughter 10 

377 Magdalen Hepburn: A Story 

of the Scottish Reformation. 

By Mrs. Oliphant 2f 


( 6 ) 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

878 Homeward Bound; or. The 

Chase. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“Homeward Bound.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of 

a Highly Origiual Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 
583 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton Atd6 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnaby. 20 

385 The Headsman; or, TheAbbaye 

des Vignerons. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “La Petite Comt- 

esse.” By Octave Feuillet. . . 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

Charlotte French 20 

388 Addie’s Husband; or. Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?” 10 

389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

Jules Verne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or. The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 
Oliphaut 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 

ridge 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

uel Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phaot 10 


NO. PRICE. 

411 A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine's Day. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

419 The Chainbearer ; or. The Little- 

page Manuscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Sataustoe; or, The Littlepage 

Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Manu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or, The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oak Openings ; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart.. M.P., 
formerly known as “ Tommy 
Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 Z6ro: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 

429 Boulderstonr., or, New Men and 

Old Populations. By Wiliam 
Sime 10 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. By the 

author of “By Crooked Paths” 10 

431 The Monikins. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

432 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne,” and A Rainy June. 

By “ Ouida ” 10 

434 Wyllard’s Weird. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Taylor.... 20 

436 Stella. B}^ Fanny Lewald 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half, 30 


THE SEASIDE LI BR ARY.— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICK. 

438 Found Out. Helen B. Mathers. 10 

439 Great Expectations. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of The Albany. . . 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner. By 

Florence Marry at 20 

445 The Shadow of a Crime. By 

Hall Caine - 20 

446 Dame Durden. By “Rita” 20 

447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 20 

450 Godfrey Helstone. ByGeorgiana 

M. Craik 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 

the Bar. By G. J. Whyte- 
Melville 20 

452 In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

453 The Lottery Ticket. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 


456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative of 

Every-day Life and Every-day 
People. By Charles Dickens. 20 

457 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. By Charles Marvin. .. 10 

458 A Week of Passion; or, The Di- 

lemma of Mr. George Barton 
the Younger. By Edward Jen- 
kins. 20 

459 A Woman's Temptation. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 

460 Under a Shadow. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

461 His Wedded Wife. By author 

of “ Ladybird’s Penitence ”.. 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 


land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty-two illustrations by 
John Tenniel 20 

463 Redgauntlet. Sir Walter Scott. 20 

464 The Newcomes. By Wm. Make- 

peace Thackeray. Part 1 20 

464 The Newcomes. By Wm. Make- 

peace Thackeray. Part II — 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 


no. prick. 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 

of a Sewing-Girl. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thome ” 20 

471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 

By William Black 10 

473 A Lost Son. By Mary Linskill. 10 

474 Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

476 Between Two Sins. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 


477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 

day. By Mrs. Campbell Praed. 10 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter 

By Miss M. E. Braddon. Parti. 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobodj^’s Daughter 

By Miss M. E. Braddon. Part II. 20 

479 Louisa. KatharineS. Macquoid 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

481 The House that Jack Built. By 

Alison 10 

482 A Vagrant Wife. ByF. Warden 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 


the author of “A Golden Bar ” 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. ByJ. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “The 

Duchess ”. . . : 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

490 A Second Life. Mrs. Alexander 20 

491 Society in London. By A For- 

eign Resident 10 

492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lucas Malet 20 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 

bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 10 

495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

499 The Cloven Foot. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon '. ... 20 

500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris. 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. 

Mabel Robinson 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY-Pocket Edition. 


*40. PRICE. 

502 Carriston’s Gift. By Hugh Con- 

way, author of “Called Back” 10 

503 The Tinted Venus. F. Anstey. 10 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. By 

John Coleman. Illustrated. 

My Poor Wife. By the au- 
thor of “ Addie’s Husband ”.. 10 

505 The Society of London. By 


Count Paul Vasili 10 

506 Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne ” 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

and Other Stories. By Sir 
Walter Scott 10 

508 The Unholy Wish. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood. The Girl at the 
Gate. By Wilkie Collins 10 

509 NellHaffenden. Tighe Hopkins 20 

510 A Mad Love. By the author of 

“Lover and Lord ” 10 

511 A Strange World. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood 10 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood 10 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

516 Put Asunder; or, Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M.' Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories. By “The Duchess” 10 

518 The Hidden Sin. A Novel 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife. A Novel 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

521 Entangled. E. Fairfax Byrrne 20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown ; or. The 

Steel Gauntlets. By F. Du 
Boisgobey 20 

523 The Consequences of a Duel. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

625 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 
“Called Back” 10 

526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poynter 20 

527 The Days of My Life. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

528 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

529 The Doctor’s Wife. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

580 A Pair of Blue Eyes. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

581 The Prime Minister. Anthony 

Trollope. First half 20 

531 The Prime Minister. Anthony 

TrQllope. Second half 20 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

533 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 


534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet ... 20 


NO. PRICE. 

535 Henrietta’s 'Wish; or. Domi- 

neering. Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 

drew Lang ' 10 

537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 

538 A Fair Country Maid. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 20 

539 Silvermead. Jean Middleman. 20 

540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 

541 “As it Fell Upon a Day.” By 

“ The Duchess,” and Uncle 


Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

543 A Family Affair. By Hugh 

Conway, author of “ Called 
Back” 20 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel. Miss M. E. Braddon . 10 

545 Vida’s Story 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest. By Basil 20 

548 A Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner. By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 10 

550 Struck Down. Hawley Smart. 10 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant. . . 20 

556 A Prince of Darkness. By F. 

Warden 20 

557 To the Bitter End. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

558 Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

Fenn 20 

559 Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

560 Asphodel. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

561 Just As I Am. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or. The Rail- 

road of Life. By Frank E. 
Smedley 20 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander... 10 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 

566 The Royal Highlanders ; or. The 

Black Watch in Egypt. By 
James Grant 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

569 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. NO. 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. By Alice 604 

Comyns Carr 10 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill.. 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 

574 The Nabob : A Story of Parisian 

Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

575 The Finger of Fate. By Cap- 

tain Mayne Reid 20 

576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne”., 20 

577 In Peril and Privation. By 

James Payn - 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. Part I. (Illustrated).. 10 
578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. Part II. (Illustrated) 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. Part III. (Illustrated) 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories. By M. Betham-Ed- 
wards 10 

580 The Red Route. William Sime 20 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needed .'. 20 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith.. 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

585 A Drawn Game. By Basil 20 

586 “For Percival.” By Margaret 

Velev 20 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford. By G. 

Manville Fenn 20 

588 Cherry. By the author of “ A 

Great Mistake ” 10 

589 The Luck of the Darrells. By 

James Payn 20 

590 The Courting of Mary Smith. 

By F. W. Robinson 20 

591 The Queen of Hearts. By Wil- 

kie Collins 20 

592 A Strange Voyage. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 20 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

Ed wards 20 

595 A North Country Maid. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

596 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “The Crime 

of Christmas Day ” 20 

897 Haco the Dreamer. By Will- 
iam Sime 10 

598 Corinna. By “Rita.” 10 

599 Lancelot Ward, M. P. By 

George Temple 10 

600 Hon p- La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “Called Back” — 10 

602 Camiola: A Girl With a Fort- 

une. By Justin McCarthy. . . 20 

603 Agnes. Mrs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 
§0-3 Agnes, Mrs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 

' HW 


604 

605 

606 

607 

608 

609 

610 


611 

612 

613 


614 

615 

616 

617 

618 


619 


620 

621 

622 

623 

624 

625 

627 

628 

629 

630 

630 

631 

632 

633 

633 

634 

635 

636 


PRICE. 

Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. Mrs. Oliphant. 1st half 20 
Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. Mrs. Oliphant. 2d half 20 

Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiaua M. 
Craik 20 

Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 
For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

The Dark House : A Knot Un- 
raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 
The Story of Dorothy Grape, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

My Wife’s Niece. By the au- 
thor of “ Dr. Edith Romney ” 20 
The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 
and the Prophet. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 
Mary Anerle}'. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

The Sacred Nugget. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 
The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 

melin 20 

Between the Heather and the 
Northern Sea. M. Linskill. . . 20 
The Warden. Anthony Trollope 10 
Harry Heatheote of Gangoil. 

By Anthony Trollope 10 

My Lady's Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

Primus in Indis. By M. J. 

Colquhoun 10 

Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

White Heather. By Wm. Black 20 
Wedded Hands. Bv the author 

of “My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

Christowell. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 

more '. 20 

The Maid of Sker. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 20 

The Maid of Sker. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 20 

The Unforeseen. By Alice 

O’Haulon 20 

Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers '. 10 

Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 
more. 1st half 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition 


NO. PRICE. 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

637 What’s His Offence ? A Novel. 20 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons. By 
J. S. Winter 10 

639 Othmar. By “Ouida” 20 

610 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

642 Britta. By George Temple — 10 

643 The Sketch-book of Geoffrey 

Crayon, Gent. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

644 A Girton Girl. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

R h o d a Broughton, and 
Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

646 The Master of the Mine. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 

617 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin '. 10 

»> 18 The Angel of the Bells. By F. 

Du Boisgobey 20 

1 49 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

t50 Alice; or. The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 

J51 “Self or Bearer” By Walter 
Besant 10 

652 The Lady With the Rubies. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

653 A Barren Title. T. W. Speight 10 

654 “Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Moles worth 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 

trait. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Win. Senior... 10 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. 

Far jeon 10 

658 The History of a Week. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 10 

•59 The Waif of the “ Cynthia.” By 
Jules Verne 20 


NO. PRICE. 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. By Miss 
Jane Porter. 1st half 20 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 

tie Murray 20 

662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 

By Isabella Fy vie Mayo 20 

665 The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 20 

667 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 

By Anthony Trollope 20 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

671 Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 10 


672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 

2d half 20 

673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

674 First Person Singular. By 

David Christie Murray 20 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Tliack- 

eray 20 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story ” 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 10 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 20 

681 A Singer’s Storj\ By May Laf- 

fan 10 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. By Mrs. J. Harcourt- 
Roe 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

685 England Under Gladstone. 1880 

—1885. By Justin H. McCarthy, 
M.P 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 10 


Persons who wish to purchase the foregoing works in complete and un- 
abridged form are cautioned to order and see that they get The Seaside Li- 
brary, Pocket Edition, as works published in other libraries are frequently 
abridged and incomplete. Every number of The Seaside Library is un- 
changed and unabridged. 

Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, addresses, and 
number required. 

The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from 
larger type and on better paper than any other series published. 

The foregoing works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any 
address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Monro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 

[When ordering by mail please order by numbers,] 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 

LATEST ISSUES: 


NO. PRICE. 


649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- 

S uel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) 

y Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 

651 “ Self or Bearer ” By Walter 

Besant 10 

652 The Lady With the Rubies. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

653 A Barren Title. T. W. Speight 10 
654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Molesworth. . 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
trait. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior... 10 
657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. 

Far jeon 10 

658 The History of a Week. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford.... 10 

659 The Waif of the “ Cynthia.” By 

Jules Verne .’ ... 20 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 20 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 
tie Murray 20 

662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 

By Isabella Fy vie Mayo 20 

663 Handy Andy. By Samuel 

Lover 20 

664 Rory O’More. By Samuel Lover 20 
665 The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 

667 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 

By Anthony Trollope 20 

668 Haif-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

670 The Rose and the Ring. By W. 

M. Thackeray. Illustrated... 10 
671 Don Gesualdo. By “Ouida.”.. 10 
672 In Maremma. By “Ouida.” 

1st half 20 

672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 

2d half. 20 

673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

674 First Person Singular. By 

David Christie Murray 20 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thack- 
eray 20 

676 A Child’s History of England. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story ” 20 


no. price. 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 20 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 10 

681 A Singer’s Story. By May Laf- 

fan 10 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. By Mrs. J. Harcourt- 
Roe 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

685 England Under Gladstone. 1880 

—1885. By Justin H.McCarthy, 
M.P 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

688 A Man of Honor. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

692 The Mikado, and Other Comic 

Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 
Sullivan. - 20 

694 John Maidment. By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

695 Hearts: Queen. Knave, and 

Deuce. By David Christie 
Murray 20 

697 The Pretty Jailer. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

698 A Life’s Atonement. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

C99 The Sculptor’s Daughter. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half. .. 20 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half... 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 1st half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 2d half 20 

704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 

son 10 

705 The Woman I Loved, and the 

Woman Who Loved Me. By 
Isa Blagden 10 

706 A Crimson Stain. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

711 A Cardinal Sin. By Hugh Con' 

way 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 
Tighe Hopkins 20 


The foregoing works, contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 
dress 

GEORGE MITNKO, 

RIUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y, 


P. 0. Box 3751. 


NEW TABERNACLE SERMONS 



\ni Dewitt talmjige, d.d. 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. 12mo. Price $1.00. 


The latest of Dr. Talmage’s sermons have not jet been pre< 
sented in book form. They have appeared weekly in The New 
Yoru Fireside Companion, and are now 

Published for the First Time in Book Form, 

the price of which is within the reach of all. 


PRINTED IN 

CLEAR, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE, 

AND WILL MAKE 

AN ELEGANT AND ACCEPTABLE HOLIDAY GIFT, 

The above will be sent postpaid on receipt of price, $1.00. 
Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 


F. O. Box 3751 


17 to 27 Vamlewater Street. New York* 


JUST ISSUED 


JUST ISSUED 


•v 


JULIET CORSON’S 


NEW FAMILY COOK BOOK. 

BY MISS JULIET CORSON, 

Author of “ Meals for the Million,” etc., etc. 
SUPERINTENDENT OF THE NEW YORK SCHOOL OF COOKERY. 


PRICE: HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH, $1.00. 

A COMPLETE COOK BOOK 

For Family Use in City and Country. 

CONTAINING 

PRACTICAL RECIPES AND FULL AND PLAIN DIREC- 
TIONS FOR COOKING ALL DISHES USED 
IN AMERICAN HOUSEHOLDS. 

The Best and Most Economical Methods of Cooking Meats, Fish, 
Vegetables, Sauces, Salads, Puddings and Pies. 

How to Prepare Relishes and Savory Accessories, Picked-up Dishes, 
Soups, Seasoning, Stuffing and Stews. 

How to Make Good Bread, Biscuit, Omelets, Jellies, Jams, Pan. 
cakes, Fritters and Fillets. 


Miss Corson is the best American writer on cooking. All of her recipe* 
have been carefully tested in the New York School of Cookery. If her direc- 
tions are carefully followed there will be no failures and no reason for com- 
plaint. Her directions are always plain, very complete, and easily followed. 

Juliet Corson’s New Family Cook Book 

Vs sold by all newsdealers. It will be sent, postpaid, on receipt of price* 
handsomely bound In cloth, $1.00. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 

O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Yandewater St.. N. Y. 



PEARS’ SOAP removes the irritability , redness 
and blotchy appearance of the skin from which many 
children suffer. It is unrivaled as a pure deliqht- 
ful TOILET SOAP , and is for sale throughout the 
civilized world . 


The New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price 25 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price $3.00 per Y T ear. 


Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “The Duchess, 
author of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, 
author of “Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “ The House ou the 
Marsh.” 


COMMENTS OF THE PRESS: 


The New York Fashion Bazar is- 
sues a holiday supplement that will be 
attractive in numberless households — a 
chromo - lithograph, “ Merry Little 
Mischief,” which will catch the 
maternal, as well as the artistic, eye. 
The Christmas number contains sixty- 
four pages of literary and illustrative 
matter . — The Independent , N. Y. 

The New York Fashion Bazar. The 
Christmas number of this very popu- 
lar magazine is handsomely illustrated 
with the latest home and foreign fash- 
ion plates and with embroidery and 
other patterns, to which instructions 
to the worker are attached. It is a 
wonderfully attractive magazine, es- 
pecially to the ladies, for, with the 
fashions, there is given every month 
installments of popular novels. In the 
present number several completed 
stories for the season are given. The 
Christmas box to subscribers is a beau- 
tiful colored picture, bearing the title, 
“Merry Little Mischief.” Published 
by George Munro, 17 to 27 Yande water 
Street, New York City . — Brantford 
(Ont.) Daily Expositor. 

The New York Fashion Bazar. — 
Among the leading fashion monthlies 
is the New York Fashion Bazar, 
which has forged its way to the front 
and won a warm place in the hearts of 
its readers. Yearly subscription $3.00; 
send 25 cents for a sample copy. Ad- 
dress George Munro, Publisher, New 
York —Gospel Trumpet , Altoona, Pa. 

The Christmas number of The New 
York Fashion Bazar is an exceedingly 
attractive publication, and is accom- 
panied by a really beautiful chromo 
supplement, “ Merry Little Mis- 
chief.” The illustrations and literary 
matter of this magazine are both of 
a high order of excellence. Terms $3.00 
per year. George Munro, New York, 
Publisher . — Connecticut Farmer. 


The New York Fashion Bazar. The 
current number of this handsome 
magazine for the ladies is a. most at- 
tractive issue, opening with a double 
page of richly colored plates, showing 
the latest styles in winter garments; 
then follow over seventy pages crowd- 
ed with patterns and embroideries, of 
bonnets, dresses, outer garments and 
suits, with full descriptions and a fund 
of information as to the material and 
manufacture; there are several chap- 
ters of each serial, several papers on the 
art of housekeeping and a thousand 
useful suggestions which the ladies 
will appreciate. The cover presents 
seven colored suits for children, and 
altogether this is a specially attractive 
number. The pages are large, about 
half the size of illustrated weekly 
papers, so that the fashions can be 
shown to good advantage. George 
Munro, Publisher, New York . — Daily 
American , Lawrence, Mass. 

The New York Fashion Bazar.— 
The current number of this fashion 
magazine has been received. It is a 
very attractive issue. The illustrations 
of the various styles of wearing ap- 
parel in the different grades of goods 
are very numerous. The fashion plate 
in colors contains seven figures. Pub- 
lished by George Munro, New York, at 
25 cents a number, or $3.00 a year. — 
The Catholic Church . Montreal. 

The Christmas number of The New 
York Fashion Bazar, George Munro, 
publisher, New York, is a superb 
issue. A new story, “ Margery Daw,” 
promises to be most fascinating, while 
the continued and complete stories are 
of intense interest. 1 he fashion plates 
are very numerous and artistic, and 
are fully described. A beautiful 
chromo, “ Merry Little Mischief,” is 
given as a supplement with this num- 
ber.— Toronto (Ont.) Mail. 


The New Y t ork Fashion Bazar is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
per copy. Subscription price $3.00 per year. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


THE CELEBRATED 



GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 



FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exhibi- 
tion, 1876 ; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


They are tn 
in Conserva 
ries, Schools s 
Seminaries, on i 
count of their ! 
perior tone a 1 
unequaled du 
bility. 

The SOHM.‘ 1 
Piano is a spec 
favorite with 1 
leading musicit 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS 

SOHMER CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14tli Street, N. Y. 


Munro’s Publications. 


The Seaside Library— Pocket Edition. 

MISS M. E. BKAl»I>ON’S WORKS. 


35 Lady Audley’s Se- 
cret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune.. 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 
158 The Golden Calf. ... 20 

204 Vixen 20 

2 1 1 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara; or, Splen. 

did Mlsorv 20 

268 An Ishniarllte 20 

315 The Mistletoe 
Bough. Edited by 
Miss Brnddon.... 20 
434 Wyllard’s Weird.. 20 
478 Diavoln; or, No- 
body’s Daughter. 

Part 1 20 

478 Dlnvola; or. No. 
body’s Daughter. 

Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste. 
Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. 

Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s 

Daughter 20 

489 Rupert Godwin.... 20 

495 Mount Koyai 20 

496 Only a Woman. 

Edited hr Miss M. 

E. Brnddon 20 


497 The Lady’s Mile... 20 

498 Only a Plod 20 

499 The Cloven Foot... 20 

51 1 A Strange World . . 20 

615 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 
524 Strangers and Pil- 
grims 20 

529 The Doctor’s Wife. 20 

512 Fenton's Quest.... 20 
544 Cut by the County; 

or, Grace Darnel. 10 

548 The Fatal Marriage, 

and Tlie Shadow' 
in the Corner... . 10 

549 Dudley Carleon, and 

George CnuF'eld’s 
Journey 10 

552 Hostages toFortnne 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inher- 

itance. (Sequel to 
“ Birds of Prey.”) 20 
557 To the Ritter End. 20 

559 Taken at 1 lie Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A 

Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men's Shoes.. 20 
570 John Marehmont’s 

Lesncy 20 

618 The Mistletoe 
B o n e h . Christ- 
mas, 1885 20 


Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postpaid, 
n receipt of the price. Address 


GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 8751. 17 to 27 Vnndcwater St., N. Y. 


NEW 

TABERNACLE SERMON 

Preached in the Brooklyn Tabernacli 
By Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, 1). 


CONTENTS : 


Brawn and Muscle. 
The Pleiades and Orion 
The Queen’s Visit. 
Vicarious Suffering. 
Posthumous Opportu- 
nity. 

The Lord’s Razor. 
Windows Toward Je- 
rusalem. 

Stormed and Taken. 
All the World Akin. 

A Momentous Quest. 
The Great Assize. 

The Road to the City. 
The Ransomless. 

The Three Groups. 


The Insignificant. 
The Three Rings. 
How He Came to S 
It. 

Castle Jesus. 
Stripping the Slain. 
Sold Out. 

Summer Temptatio 
The Banished Queei 
The Day We Live Ii 
Capital and Labor. 
Tobacco and Opiun 
Despotism of ■ 
Needle. 

Why are Satan and ; 
Permitted? 


The book will be forwarded, postage p 
paid, on receipt of price, $1.00. Address 

•GEORGE MUNRO, 
Munro’s Publishing House, 

P.O.Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater St.. N 











































































' 0 * V. 




^ ^ /i . 'fc / \ O X/ / v S <0 <* 

■-%, " A * s «••>«♦, A ’ * A ,•> ‘ * « . A 

&••' J » » -^N ^ O GO e>jY?On- ^ 1 

& * -^|%V, v K&m^* ^ v? 

" ~ : x°^. 

V ^0 c* 




A 


V 




y£*, * 


ft 0 C^' l-'^ U " * A ti- V 

0^ *’••».% '■•■'' v'V\£'* '> 

► *• (Z. 5» * -P N <s^4M^ ✓ 

* rf\ ^Sr/Vi ° r?* A> * 

* tV\V* . .v'; ., <s> \y 

■ ■h * £ 




^ Zs. 1 * * 


* 4 . 


^ V s 


C v 


w" ,y V 

oxy 


vO 


0> 


<" 7 0 * ^ -A 

'> . / 

* a x k 

C 


• 


y 


1 ^p 

*V) 

c ^ cV O 

m /. 7 ' ’v 

;2>-5 _ c A 

*V> ^ O 

* ,V 0 


^ v* 

Jo 



~^u 7/ 'T* S s ^P' <^ •' 0 * X '* 

<* O (. . V / y^ 2 _ -? 

* - ^JZn 7 ' 'A * .aN 

, o o - aom^r. /» ■< ■ 

„* «5 •»* * 

*■ «> a % 



.’ J>° o. 

/; < . .;v • - ' : * * f ;v* - » >*>\ , . . . 

" ^ a* * >Sk%. * ■ <* * 


M^,\ "% ^ 




£• A. 




P y 09 "V 

' * * : ° ^ ’ fi 4 ^ ° # A a\ \ 0 N c ^ 

^ X feWf. -. 2 . -f \\ <*, A 1 ,'^ ✓ 

^ . +*. = :■ .s®! ; 

> . . , _. _ . Asf i vOo * A 

\ S ^ ^ ^ A^ V ^ ' * 0 ^ C> V* s S 

’ :M*K \ a A' .* 




V> ^ o 'If//' 

O -V , c v ,G A / r 

^ / * * s tH • \ \ B K y+ 

'* °o c,°‘ y.,^i *« 




M C „ 





>: ; J ^ -<v v 

,0 ^ ^ 0 a k A\ O ^ ^ S .Li ’ 

t^o 0 * " *+ ^ c ^ .X 



° « 

* *• o o 
\ U °x. 

* ^ o 

^ * 3 N o • i° °, » a \^~ V 

• ♦ > 'l 3 N A* WO ^ 81 . \ 





* o O’ 

V o> ^ 

^ \ v s 

V* a* <y >. 



**’ 




^ * 


tf "A 

f .OkV V, * 

Am » ** J> . 


V' A <• ° * ° *J*o. 

ij P ^ <-> 

U A> ^ ,<>. Y)% * 

W 

jP©* 


w - <V I 

<\* 4 o * s 

* ^<P x 

JUSSpll + ^ .a\ 

' -^ 5 . ' ’>• V‘ e & 

0 o. 


=> \ v ^ 

^ * 'HZSXl 

^ <* JX o 

. o ^ ^9 ^-4 * 8 I A 

.0* * i * « , •% 

aI S *• 




*> O 0 


. V *- 

o 0 


'P, A 


+ v 


•’o o* 


* \a 

J * „ S > ^ ' 0 , X \ o N C A '/- J * * S 'f ,v i jfi 

X . ■ sl^ *' 

*^> 

\° * 

* ^ + 

\\J ~0 . <r Q , \ 

'> 0h0 ^ W-,. A V> V 

■ %& :M^:° **+& M 

*i#l 


^ ■% 




(l > rk. 


4 ?r ^ 


^ ^ % s X" 


^ 2 : ^ z 

c? %<• 




O' , * * * - ^ f l I I ,j 


<. y 0 * v* A 


♦ - ' O, rP ^ 


f, A 




.V ^ . 


4 > 


X * 0 A ^ 




0 H °’ f V 


81 \ > v s S * «■ / 

A- 

" h ° ^ \v ^ 

A ^ a A v A> 

« ^ A> < .. ; '.. ' ^ * 


\ * 0 


^ ^ # 1 1 


A O 


r> <<> 



v' 



* A' 





J « , V * A 




^ * A-wfe, + -r, A 






& \ I 10 

V>, f 0 ‘ V* i 

. ' '' ^ : A 

; . w , 


0 O 


-^f. 




